"I'm tired, Trix; I'm cold." She shivered from head to foot. "I want to go to bed."
"But won't you say something, Dithy? Won't you wish me joy?"
"I—wish—you joy."
Her lips kept that strange feeling of stiffness—her face had lost every trace of color. Oh, to be alone and free from Trix!
"You say it as if you didn't mean it," said Trix indignantly, getting up and moving to the door. "You look half-frozen, and as white as a sheet. I should advise you to shut the window and go to bed."
She was gone. Edith drew a long breath—a long, tired, heavy sigh. So! that was over—and it was Trix, after all.
Trix, after all! How strangely it sounded—it stunned her. Trix, after all and she had made sure it was to be herself. He had looked at her, he had spoken to her, as he had never looked or spoken to Trix. His color had risen like a girl's at her coming—she had felt his heart bound as she leaned on his arm. And it was Trix, after all!
She laid her arm upon the window-sill, and her face down upon it, feeling sick—sick—that I should have to write it!—with anger and envy. She was Edith Darrell, the poor relation, still—and Trix was to be Lady Catheron.
"A pretty heroine!" cries some, "gentle reader," looking angrily up; "a nasty, envious, selfish creature. Not the sort, of a heroine we're used to." Ah! I know that—none better; but then pure and perfect beings, who are ready to resign their lovers and husbands to make other women happy, are to be found in—books, and nowhere else. And thinking it over and putting yourself in her place—honestly, now!—wouldn't you have been envious yourself?