"The Duchess of Colle Alto and Miss Bellairs are in the library."
"Are you quite sure that you really wish to see them—that it will not tire you?" said Wentworth.
"Quite sure."
"I will bring them out."
"No. Send one at a time. Fay first."
Michael lay back and closed his eyes.
On this May morning as Fay and Magdalen drove together to Barford, Magdalen looked at her sister's radiant face, not with astonishment, she had got over that, but with something more like fear.
The happiness of some natures terrifies those who love them by its appearance of brittleness. To Magdalen Fay's present joy seemed like a bit of Venetian glass on the extreme edge of a cabinet at a child's elbow.
It is difficult for those who have imagination to understand the insouciance which looks so like heartlessness of the unimaginative. The inevitable meeting with Michael seemed to cast no shadow on Fay's spirits; Wentworth's ignorance of certain sinister facts did not seem to disturb her growing love for him.