For, while he, lover-like, was
grave and earnest during the small remainder of the evening, she
continued to be sprightly and gay. The last he saw of her was her
smiling face at the window as her carriage drove away.
Arrived at the little house in Upper Brook Street, Maggie and Etta went
into the drawing-room, where biscuits and wine were set out. Their maids
came and took their cloaks away, leaving them alone.
"Paul and I are engaged," said Etta suddenly. She was picking the
withered flowers from her dress and throwing them carelessly on the
table.
Maggie was standing with her back to her, with her two hands on the
mantel-piece. She was about to turn round when she caught sight of her
own face in the mirror, and that which she saw there made her change her
intention.
"I am not surprised," she said, in an even voice, standing like a
statue. "I congratulate you. I think he is--nice."
"You also think he is too good for me," said Etta, with a little laugh.
There was something in that laugh--a ring of wounded vanity, the wounded
vanity of a bad woman who is in the presence of her superior.
"No!" answered Maggie slowly, tracing the veins of the marble across the
mantel-piece. "No--o, not that."
Etta looked up at her. It was rather singular that she did not ask what
Maggie did think. Perhaps she was afraid of a certain British honesty
which characterized the girl's thought and speech.
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