“Where are you going?” asked Rose, feebly, but she got no reply.
Soon Sylvia re-entered the room, and she had Horace by the arm. He looked stern and bewildered. Sylvia gave him a push towards Rose.
“Now look at here, both of you,” she said. “Once for all, I have got nothing to say against your getting married. I am worrying about something, and it is nobody's business what it is. I am doing right. I am doing what I know is right, and I ain't going to let myself be persuaded I ain't. I have done all I could for Rose, and I am going to do more. I have nothing against your getting married. Now I am going into the parlor to finish this work. The lamp in there is better. You can settle it betwixt you.”
Sylvia went out, a long line of fine lace trailing in her wake. Horace stood still where she had left him. Rose looked at him timidly.
“I didn't know she felt so,” she ventured, at last, in a small voice.
Horace said nothing. Rose went to him, put her hand through his arm, and laid her cheek against his unresponsive shoulder. “I did think it would about kill her if it went on,” she whispered. “I think I was mistaken.”
“And you didn't mind in the least how much I was hurt, as long as she wasn't,” said Horace.
“Yes, I did.”
“I must say it did not have that appearance.”
Rose wept softly against his rough coat-sleeve. “I wanted to do what was right, and she looked so dreadfully; and I didn't want to be selfish,” she sobbed.