"I hope I'm still sorry for any one who is unhappy," said Carolyn, steadily.
"I suppose you're going to marry Lord Maxwell; aren't you?"
This question was put with abrupt rapidity, and Prudence dropped her handkerchief and darted a look at the face beside her.
Carolyn could not tell why she suddenly resolved not to reply to this question; perhaps she made this resolution because of the eager curiosity which leaped from her cousin's eyes as she spoke. She did not answer; she averted her face lest Prudence should read the truth there, but she was conscious of a sense of shame as she did so.
"Won't you tell me?" persisted Prudence.
"I would rather not say anything on the subject," was the response.
Prudence's eyes flashed fire. Until now she had not in the least believed the rumor.
Was this girl—this—this—oh, was she to become Lady Maxwell, while she, Prudence Ffolliott, had cut herself off from such a congenial career as that with a husband whom she could twist this way and that—while she, because of the passion of a moment, was tied to a man who was tired of her, and whom just now she was sure she hated? Thoughts like these rushed hotly through her mind in a confused troop.
So, after all, Carolyn was just like other girls. Why, of course she was. Why shouldn't she be? And Maxwell was now very wealthy. Prudence sat up straight. She thrust her handkerchief into the pocket of her little cycling-jacket.
"I beg your pardon," she said, with great suavity. "I didn't know but that you might be willing to tell me. I suppose I must wait, however, until the announcement is made."