Susan was looking dishevelled and highly strung. She had spent the afternoon in writing the fifth act of a tragedy on Belisarius; and it was more than a fortnight since Mr. Weston, the young vicar of Dunscale, had been to call. Her cheeks were sallow; her dark eyes burnt behind their thick lashes.
"Suppose he's done it?" she said gloomily.
Mrs. Penfold gave a little shriek.
"Done what? What do you mean?"
"He's proposed—and she's said 'No.'"
"Lord Tatham! Oh, Susy!" wailed Mrs. Penfold; "you don't think that?"
"Yes, I do," said Susan, with resolution. "And now she's letting him down gently."
"And never said a word to you or me! Oh, Susy, she couldn't be so unkind."
Mrs. Penfold's pink and white countenance, on which age had as yet laid so light a finger, showed the approach of tears. She and Susy were sitting in a leafy recess of the garden; Lydia had gone after tea to see old Dobbs and his daughter.
"That's all this friendship business, she's so full of," said Susy. "If she'd accepted him, she'd have told us, of course. Now he's plucked as a lover, and readmitted as a friend. And one doesn't betray a friend's secrets—even to one's relations. There it is."