“I wanted you to say something about Mary’s perhaps coming to Romary,” said Alys.
“Why? Do you think she would come?” asked Mr Cheviott, doubtfully.
“No, I do not think she would,” Alys replied, “but I wanted her to see that you would like her to come.”
“Did she say that she would never come to see you at Romary?” Mr Cheviott said.
“Yes, decidedly. Her words were, ‘I cannot fancy myself, under any circumstances whatever, going to Romary,’ and I thought I heard her half say ‘again’—‘going to Romary again.’ But she has never been there?” Mr Cheviott did not reply; he turned to the fire and began poking it vigorously.
“Laurence,” said Alys, feebly.
“What, dear?”
“Please don’t poke the fire so. It seems to hurt me.”
“I am so sorry,” said her brother, penitently. “It’s the same with everything,” he added to himself. “I seem fated to make a mess of everything I have to do with.—I wish I were not so clumsy,” he went on aloud to his sister. “What shall I do with you at Romary? How shall we ever get on without Miss Western?”
“I shall have to make the best of Mrs Golding, I suppose,” said Alys, in a melancholy voice. “But she fusses so! Oh, Laurence, isn’t it a pity? Just as I have found a girl who could be to me the friend I have wished for and needed all my life, a friend whom even you, now that you know her, approve of for me, that she should have this prejudice against knowing us. Indeed, it must be more than prejudice. She is too sensible and right-minded to be influenced by that.”