"Oh, Nanna," said she, "that's a heavenly wedding-cake!"
Majendie was reminded of the habitual tender perfidy of that saint, his sister. She was always lying to make other people happy, saying that she had everything she wanted, when she hadn't, and that her spine didn't hurt her, when it did. When Edith was too exhausted to lie, she would look at you and smile, with the sweat of her torture on her forehead. He knew Edith, and wondered how far she had lied to Anne, and what she had done it for. He had a good mind to ask her; but he shrank from "dashing her down the first day."
But Edith herself dashed everything down the first five minutes. There was nothing that she shrank from.
"I'm sorry for poor Anne," said she; "but it's nice to get you all to myself again. Just for once. Only for once. I'm not jealous."
He smiled, and stroked her hair.
"I was jealous—oh, furiously jealous, just at first, for five minutes. But I got over it. It was so undignified."
"It didn't show, dear."
"I didn't mean it to. It wouldn't have been pretty. And now, it's all over and I like Anne. But I don't like her as much as you."
"You must like her more," he said gravely. "She'll need it—badly."
Edith looked at him. "How can she need it badly, when she has you?"