"
He described the situation. Marcia showed but a languid interest.
"Poor mother!" she said, absently. "Then I won't bother her with my
affairs--till to-morrow. Don't tell her anything, Corry. Good-by."
"I say, Marcia--old woman--don't be so fierce with me. You took me by
surprise--" he muttered, uncomfortably.
"Oh, it doesn't matter. Nobody in this world--seems to be able to
understand anybody else--or make allowances for anybody else. Good-by."
Coryston had long since departed. Lady Coryston had gone to bed, seeing
no one, and pleading headache. Marcia, too, had deserted Sir Wilfrid and
Lester after dinner, leaving Sir Wilfrid to the liveliest and dismalest
misgivings as to what might have been happening further to the Coryston
family on this most inexplicable and embarrassing day.
Marcia was sitting in her room by the open window. She had been writing a
long letter to Newbury, pouring out her soul to him. All that she had been
too young and immature to say to him face to face, she had tried to say to
him in these closely written and blotted pages. To write them had brought
relief, but also exhaustion of mind and body.
The summer night was sultry and very still.
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