“And is there any prospect of Celia’s marrying?” she asked.
Winifred shook her head.
“Oh no!” she replied, with a touch of something like indignation, which Miss Norreys could not understand. “Celia would never change so—she would not desert me.”
“But, my dear Miss Maryon, it might be a very good thing, if and always supposing, of course, that it was some one she cared for,” said Hertha.
“Placed as—”
“There is no use discussing remote contingencies,” interrupted Winifred, and Miss Norreys, imagining that her pride in her sister made it bitter to realise that the possibility was remote, beautiful though Celia was, said no more.
“Well, then, to be practical,” she replied, “what you have told me makes me feel that the proposal I have to lay before you may suit you even better than I had expected. For you cannot have Celia with you, or—or afford good teaching for her until you have made a beginning yourself, and got a home ready.”
“I must certainly have somewhere to bring her to,” said Winifred, evasively, “and somewhere for myself too,” with a smile. “I should like to get things a little in order, as it were, so far settled, for, you see, I am old enough to decide for myself, before I tell my people at home about it. It would make my mother so much less anxious if I could tell her it was settled.”
“But,” exclaimed Hertha, rather taken aback, “your people do know what you are intending? You are not acting against their wishes?”
“Oh no—that is to say, they do know, thoroughly,” said Winifred, with evident candour. “As for their wishes—why, no, mother does not wish us to leave home. Mothers never do—do they? She would like us all to stay near her always, I suppose. But she understands, and—she is very kind.”