The tears were raining down Nan’s cheeks, and she seized her sister’s hand in a passionate grasp.
“I know all about it. I am almost as wretched as you are. Don’t pretend to me. Say what you feel to me, at least, and it will help you to bear it.”
“But I don’t feel anything,” said Maud dully. “It seems like a dream. Lilias! He loves Lilias, and not me; he never loved me at all! He has been thinking of Lilias all this time. It’s—very—strange! I think what I feel most is shame for my own conceit. I have been deceiving myself all along, and that is a miserable thought! You should not sympathise with me, Nan: you should scold me, and tell me to be ashamed of myself.”
She spoke in the same dull, strangled note, and Nan continued to cry and clasp her hand in distress.
“I could never do that, or be anything but proud of you, darling! It was no conceit at all on your part, for we all thought the same. He always seemed to prefer being with you, and to be so shy and constrained with Lilias. I suppose that was a sign, but we did not recognise it. Even mother was sure it was you: every one was, except Lilias.”
Maud gave a quick glance upward.
“Did Lilias guess? Did she know that this was coming?”
“I have not seen her; but from what mother said, I imagine she did.”
“And she will—she cares for him too?”
“Yes!”