“Long may you think so,” said Mary, sarcastically.
Lilias’s face flushed.
“Mary,” she said, nervously, “you don’t mean that—that there is anything indelicate in my coming here, to this house? It did not strike me so, or—”
“Indelicate!—no, of course not. It is very, very good of you to have come,” said Mary, warmly; “only you see, I was so astonished.”
“But what were you intending?—what were you going to do?” said Lilias. “You can’t stay here all night without clothes, and you sent no message. We didn’t know what to think.”
“No,” said Mary, “I was just beginning to wonder what I should do. At first, you see, I was so taken up about that poor girl I could think of nothing else.”
“But she is not badly hurt,” interrupted Lilias; “you were laughing a minute ago; you don’t seem in bad spirits.”
“I don’t know,” said Mary, her voice saddening. “I think I was laughing out of a sort of nervousness. I really do not know whether she is much hurt or not, and the doctor either would not or could not say. I suppose to-morrow will show. But, Lilias, what am I to do? She cannot bear the idea of my leaving her.”
“Has she no maid with her?” asked Lilias.
“Yes, but she is a mere girl who has not been long with her. And the old housekeeper, Mrs Golding,” continued Mary, with a curious tone in her voice, “has sprained her ankle or something and cannot leave Romary. It would seem almost barbarous for me to leave her—Alys—Miss Cheviott, I mean—to-night, any way.”