“Well, my dear, I am glad to hear you say it. I am glad that Allan Ruthven hasna changed. I think you said he hasna changed?”
“At first I thought him changed, but afterwards I thought him just the same.”
“Maybe it was her that wanted the money? If her father was in trouble—”
“No, oh! no! You could never have such a thought if you had ever seen her face. I don’t know how it happened. As all marriages happen, I suppose. It was very natural; but we won’t speak about it.”
“They seem to have forgotten their friends. I think you said you seldom see them now.”
“We don’t see them often. They have been out of town a good deal, and we have fallen a little out of acquaintance. But we have done that with many others; we have made so many new acquaintances since Arthur’s marriage—friends of Fanny’s, you know; and, somehow, nothing seems quite the same as it used to do. If Mr Ruthven knew you were in town, I am sure he would have been to see you before now.”
“I am no’ wearying to see him,” said Mrs Snow, coldly. “But, my dear, is your work of more value than your eyes, that you are keeping at it in the dark?”
Graeme laughed and laid it down, but did not leave the window, and soon it grew so dark that she had no excuse for looking out. So she began to move about the room, busying herself with putting away her work, and the books and papers that were scattered about. Janet watched her silently. The shadow was dark on her face, and her movements, as she displaced and arranged and re-arranged the trifles on the table were quick and restless. When there seemed nothing more for her to do, she stood still with an uneasy look on her face, as though she thought her friend were watching her, and then moved to the other end of the room.
“My dear,” said Mrs Snow, in a little, “how old are you now?”
Graeme laughed, and came and took her old seat.