“Is—is that wise?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
There is such a dull doggedness in the tone, such a clutch upon the interview referred to implied in it, that Mrs. Darcy gives a gasp.
“It won’t be good-bye!” she says presently, in a low tone of conviction—“it cannot be!”
Lavinia does not answer; not in the least, as her friend is distressfully aware, because she is acquiescent; but simply because the statement is not worth contradicting.
“I can’t stand by and see a crime committed!” Susan says, talking low and very quickly, and trying not to let her agitation get the better of her. “If you feel that it is a task beyond your strength, I will speak to Rupert for you; at the least hint, the least suggestion—heroically unselfish as he is.”
“You used not to admire him so much!” puts in the other with a bitter dryness.
“It is quite true, and it is perfectly fair that you should remind me of it,” rejoins Mrs. Darcy, humbly and ruefully; far too intent on her object to resent or even notice any blow that her self-esteem may suffer on the way to it. “I was paltry enough to allow myself to be blinded by his silly little foibles to his great qualities; but of late, during Sir George’s illness, realizing, as I have done—as every one must have done—all that he has had to give up, and with what perfect self-effacement he has done it——”
Lavinia breaks in upon her with a terrible jocosity.
“You have forgiven him his old lace and his Elzevirs! Well, better late than never!”