And Horace did not care for her one bit now--she could see it,
she knew it, he was tired of her, and she was not clever
enough for him, and would never make him a good wife. All this
our little-reticent Maria had sobbed out in answer to Mrs.
Vavasour's sympathising questions, with many entreaties to
know what she had better do next. Mrs. Vavasour could only
advise her to say to Horace just what she had said to her, and
she had sufficient confidence in Maria's courage and good
sense to trust that she would do so now, when matters had
evidently come to a crisis. But it was with the keenest
interest she awaited the end of their conversation.
She had not to wait very long. In a few minutes she saw Maria
coming quickly across the lawn; she passed through the window
and the room without looking up or speaking, and, with a
little sob, disappeared. Graham followed more slowly, and
sitting down by the table, moodily watched his sister's
fingers moving rapidly to and fro.
"That is all over," he said at last.
"What is all over?" inquired Mrs. Vavasour.
"Everything between Maria and me.
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