"I am never cold," said Sarah; "I take too much exercise, I suppose, to feel the cold."
"Then come," said Lady Mary.
They stole past the sleeping sisters into the drawing-room, and closed the communicating door as noiselessly as possible.
Here only the moonlight reigned, pouring in through the uncurtained windows and rendering the gay, rose-coloured room, with its pretty contents, perfectly weird and unfamiliar.
Sarah flung her warm, young arms about her earliest and most beloved friend, and rested her bright head against the gentle bosom.
"You never thought I meant all the horrid, cruel things I made Peter say to you? You never believed it of me, did you? That I wouldn't marry him unless you went away. You whom I love best in the world, and always have," she said defiantly, "or that I would ever alter a single corner of this dear old house, which used to be so hideous, and which you have made so beautiful?"
"Sarah! My—my darling!" said Lady Mary, in frightened, trembling tones.
"You needn't blame Peter for saying any of it," said Sarah, "for it was I who put the words into his mouth. It made him miserable to say them; but he could not help himself. He wasn't really quite responsible for his actions. He isn't now. When people are—are in love, I've often noticed they're not responsible."
"But why—"
"I only wanted to show him what a goose he really was," murmured Sarah, hanging her head. "He came back so pompous and superior; talking about his father's place, and being the only man in the house, and obliged to look after you all; and it was all so ridiculous, and so out of date. I didn't mean to hurt you except just for a moment, because it could not be helped," said Sarah. She hid her face in Lady Mary's neck, half laughing and half crying. "I was so afraid you—you were taking him seriously; and—and he was so selfish, wanting to keep you all to himself."