“Oh, well—if you don’t mind,” said Mary. “You are nearly as tiresome as Edward and Edward has been most dreadfully tiresome. I told him so. I said, ‘Edward, I really never knew you could be so tiresome,’ and it seemed to make him _worse_. I think, you know, that he is afraid that people will talk if David goes on coming here. Of course, that’s absurd, I told him it was absurd. I said, ‘Why, how on earth is any one to know that it isn’t Elizabeth he comes to see?’ And then, Edward became really violent. I didn’t know he could be, but he was. He simply plunged up and down the room, and said: ‘If he wants to see Elizabeth, then in Heaven’s name let him see Elizabeth. Let him _marry_ Elizabeth.’ Oh, you mustn’t mind, Liz,” as Elizabeth’s head went up, “it was only because he was so cross, and you and David are such old friends. There’s nothing for you to _mind_.” She paused, stole a quick glance at Elizabeth, then looked away, and said in a tentative voice, “Liz, why don’t you marry David?” “Because he doesn’t want me to, Molly,” said Elizabeth. Her voice was very proud, and her head very high. Mary half put out her hand, and drew it back again. She knew this mood of Elizabeth’s, and it was one that silenced even her ready tongue. She was the little sister again for a moment, and Elizabeth the mother, sister, and ideal—all in one. “Liz, I’m sorry,” she said in quite a small, humble voice. When she had gone, Elizabeth sat on by the fire. She did not move for a long time. When she did move, it was to put up a hand to her face, which was wet with many hot, slow tears. Pride dies hard, and hurts to the very last. CHAPTER XI FORGOTTEN WAYS I have forgotten all the ways of sleep, The endless, windless silence of my dream, The milk-white poppy meadows and the stream, The dreaming water soft and still and deep— I have forgotten how that water flows, I have forgotten how the poppy grows, I have forgotten all the ways of sleep. It was on an afternoon, a few days later, that David came into the hall of the Mottisfonts’ house. “Lord save us, he do look bad,” was the thought in Markham’s mind as she let him in. Aloud she said that she thought Mrs. Mottisfont was just going out. As she spoke, Mary came down the stairs, bringing with her a sweet scent of violets. Mary was very obviously going out. She wore a white cloth dress, with dark furs, and there was a large bunch of mauve and white violets at her breast. She looked a little vexed when she saw David. “Oh,” she said, “I am just going out. I am so sorry, but I am afraid I must. Bazaars are tiresome things, but one must go to them, and I promised Mrs. Codrington that I would be there early. Elizabeth is in. She’ll give you some tea. Markham, will you please tell Miss Elizabeth?”