"Crying! Bosh! I never cry. I'm stupid—I'm sleepy—my head aches.
Excuse me, Trix, but I'm going to bed."
"Wait just one moment. O Edith," with a great burst, "I can't keep it! I'll die if I don't tell somebody. O Edith, Edith! wish me joy, Sir Victor has proposed!"
"Trix!"
She could just say that one word—then she sat dumb.
"O yes, Edith—out in the boat to-night. O Edith! I'm so happy—I want to jump—I want to dance—I feel wild with delight! Just think of it—think of it! Trixy Stuart will be My Lady Catheron!"
She turned of a dead white from brow to chin. She sat speechless with the shock—looking at Trixy—unable to speak or move.
"He's most awfully and aggravatingly modest," pursued Beatrix. "Couldn't say plump, like a man and brother, 'Trixy Stuart, will you marry me?' but beat about the bush, and talked of being refused, and fearing a rival, and speaking to ma and pa and Lady Helena when we got to England. But perhaps that's the way the British aristocracy make love. He asked me if there was any previous engagement, and any fear of a refusal, and that rubbish. I don't see," exclaimed Trixy, growing suddenly aggrieved, "why he couldn't speak out like a hero, and be done with it? He's had encouragement enough, goodness knows!"
Something ludicrous in the last words struck Edith—she burst out laughing. But somehow the laugh sounded unnatural, and her lips felt stiff and strange.
"You're as hoarse as a raven and as pale as a ghost," said Trix. "That's what comes of sitting in draughts, and looking at the moonshine. I'm awfully happy, Edith; and when I'm Lady Catheron, you shall come and live with me always—always, you dear old darling, just like a sister. And some day you'll be my sister in reality, and Charley's wife."
She flung her arms around Edith's neck, and gave her a rapturous hug.
Edith Darrell unclasped her arms and pushed her away.