It was a relief when old Lady Vere came in, and her daughters, who were much of the same age as Mary and Beatrice, and instantly drew off the attention of those two sharp-eyed young women. Lady Vere, too, kept Lady Augusta in occupation, and had something to say to Helena. So that when Edgar brought her cup back to the tea-table, it was quite natural that he should glide into the vacant chair, and keep Gussy company. “Are you sorry to leave town?” he said; and Gussy gave a shy, blushing, trustful glance into his face, which made him draw his chair a little closer. He _was_ fond of her! not impassioned, but yet--what a dear little girl she was! “Sorry for some things,” Gussy said, “but not so sorry as Mary and Beatrice are. One’s first season is always delightful; one feels as if it would all last for ever.” “Do you? I think I have that feeling too, but only because it is so dreary, so flat, so _banal_, always the same thing over again,” said Edgar. “I think life must be waiting for us--real life, not this dull routine--at home.” “Yes, perhaps,” said Gussy faintly--for every word he said seemed to be more and more weighted with meaning. He did not say absolutely, “the real life I speak of is our life together, the existence in which we two shall be one,” but could anything be more clear than that he meant it so? Her voice sank in spite of herself. Gussy was not in the least impassioned either, but what she thought was--“How dearly he must love me, to be able to give up town and everything for my sake! Poor dear boy, that is all he is thinking of; and oh, I am not so good as he is. I am thinking of a great many other things besides him.” Thus, with the very best motives in the world, they went on deceiving each other. Not much was said over the tea-table except such broken scraps of talk as this--talk which meant next to nothing, and yet was supposed by the listeners on both sides to mean a great deal. “Ada is anxious to get back to her schools and her poor people,” Gussy said. “She is so good! She has done nothing but work for the children even here. People ought to be happy, don’t you think, that give themselves up like that, and think only of others? They must get to be happy because they are so good.” “I hope so,” said Edgar, with a certain doubtfulness; “but, above all, those who are more happy should be good to her. One like her seems a sacrifice for others, securing their happiness. I mean----” “Oh, I know what you mean,” said Gussy, clasping her hands; “and indeed it is no trouble to be good to Ada; we all love her so. Sometimes I feel as if it would be wicked to be very happy while she sits there----”