“I think that Mrs. Germain may take for granted that nobody from our house will intrude where he is not wanted,” said Mrs. Middleham with dignity. “Whenever Mary comes to see us she will be welcome. That she knows. We shall go where we are welcome—and nowhere else.”
“Then we quite understand each other, I see,” said Mrs. James.
“I hope we do,” said the other. “It shan’t be my fault if we do not.”
Mr. Germain was very uncomfortable, but there was now none too much time for the train, according to his calculations. While Mary was “changing her hat”—as it was put—the wedding party, rigidly segregated, stood astare, each at its window, upon the gusty vagaries of a late autumn day.
Mary was at the glass, flushed and on the edge of tears. Her hands were at her hat, while her eyes searched Jinny’s stony pair for a sign of melting. But Jinny was immovable. In vain did the pretty bride turn this way and that, invite criticism, invoke it: Jinny’s disapproval persisted. This was not to be borne—with a little whimper the victim turned, clasped Medusa round the waist; with one hand to her chin she coaxed for kindness. She stroked Jinny’s cheek, tiptoed for a kiss. Presently she fairly sobbed on Jinny’s bosom.
“Oh, you are unkind to me—you hurt me dreadfully! What have I done, that you won’t love me?”
“Done!” cried Jinny. “Hear her!” Then with blazing wrath she scorned her sister. “I’ll tell you what you’ve done, my dear. You’ve married a gravestone. Sacred to the Memory of John Germain, Esquire—that’s what you’ve sold yourself to—take your joy of that. The price of a kissed hand! You’ll find out before morning, my beauty. If I marry a crossing-sweeper, he shall be a man.”
“You liked him, you know you liked him——.”
“Yes, for a grandfather, my dear; but for a husband, if you please, I’ll have a man. And so might you—over and over. You’ve been as good as promised half-a-dozen times——.”
“Jinny, you know that’s not true.” She was ruthlessly put away to arm’s length.