She accompanied us to the gate and stood under the porch, her big dog beside her, and the roses waving high over her head.
“At any rate work agrees with you,”—said Sibyl fixing upon her a long, intent, almost envious gaze—“You look perfectly happy.”
“I am perfectly happy,”—she answered
, smiling—“I have nothing in all the world to wish for, except that I may die as peacefully as I have lived.”
“May that day be far distant!” I said earnestly.
She raised her soft meditative eyes to mine.
“Thank you!” she responded gently—“But I do not mind when it comes, so long as it finds me ready.”
She waved her hand to us as we left her and turned the corner of the lane,—and for some minutes we walked on slowly in absolute silence. Then at last Sibyl spoke—
“I quite understand the hatred there is in some quarters for Mavis Clare,”—she said—“I am afraid I begin to hate her myself!”
I stopped and stared at her, astonished and confounded.