“What was it?” said Mary.
“Oh! about your being glad you had got to know us, and—”
“Nay,” exclaimed Mary, “I am sure I did not say that, Alys. What I said was that I thanked you for showing me how loving and sympathising you are, and that being prosperous and rich and courted and all that, as you are, need not necessarily make one narrow-minded and selfish.”
“Well,” said Alys, “it comes to much the same thing. I don’t see why you need have flown up so at my way of putting it.”
“Because,” said Mary, with vehemence, disproportionate to the occasion, “I was speaking of and to you, Alys—you alone.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Alys, “I would like my praise far, far more, Mary, if you would give poor Laurence a little bit of it too. He deserves it, while I—”
“Never mind,” said Mary, uneasily. “Don’t let us get into a discussion, dear Alys.”
“I am sure I don’t want to discuss anything except the end of your sentence. Do finish, Mary. Now that you have got to know me, or like me a little, you are not going to keep to your horrible resolution?”
Mary’s face clouded.
“I see, what you mean,” she said. “Oh! Alys, I am sorry to pain you, and very, very sorry not to be able to look forward to seeing you again, but I cannot change. I cannot—”