“I dare say she likes you better than the property,” said Rosamond, looking at him from a distance.
“Pray don’t say any more about it,” said Will, in a hoarse undertone extremely unlike his usual light voice. “It is a foul insult to her and to me.” Then he sat down absently, looking before him, but seeing nothing.
“Now you are angry with me ,” said Rosamond. “It is too bad to bear me malice. You ought to be obliged to me for telling you.”
“So I am,” said Will, abruptly, speaking with that kind of double soul which belongs to dreamers who answer questions.
“I expect to hear of the marriage,” said Rosamond, playfully.
“Never! You will never hear of the marriage!”
With those words uttered impetuously, Will rose, put out his hand to Rosamond, still with the air of a somnambulist, and went away.
When he was gone, Rosamond left her chair and walked to the other end of the room, leaning when she got there against a chiffonniere, and looking out of the window wearily. She was oppressed by ennui, and by that dissatisfaction which in women’s minds is continually turning into a trivial jealousy, referring to no real claims, springing from no deeper passion than the vague exactingness of egoism, and yet capable of impelling action as well as speech. “There really is nothing to care for much,” said poor Rosamond inwardly, thinking of the family at Quallingham, who did not write to her; and that perhaps Tertius when he came home would tease her about expenses.