“Why on earth does one go to balls?” said Constance, gloomily pressing both hands upon a pair of aching temples.
Nora shut the door behind her, and came to the side of the bed.
“It’s time to dress,” she said firmly. “Alice says you had a succès fou last night.”
“Go away, and don’t talk nonsense!” Constance turned on her side, and shut her eyes.
“Oh, Alice hadn’t a bad time either!” said Nora, complacently, sitting on the bed. “Herbert Pryce seems to have behaved quite decently. Shall I tell you something?” The laughing girl stooped over Connie, and said in her ear—“Now that Herbert knows it would be no good proposing to you, he thinks it might be a useful thing to have you for a relation.”
“Don’t be horrid!” said Constance. “If I were Alice—”
“You’d punch my head?” Nora laughed. “All very well. But Alice doesn’t much care why Herbert Pryce marries her, so long as he does marry her.”
Constance did not reply. She continued to feign a headache. But all the time she was thinking of the scene in the wood that morning, when she and Falloden had—to amuse themselves—plotted the rise in life, and the matrimonial happiness, of Herbert and Alice. How little they had cared for what they talked about! They talked only that they might laugh together—hear each other’s voices, look into each other’s eyes—
“Where did you ride this morning?” said Nora suddenly.
“Somewhere out towards Godstowe,” said Constance vaguely.