“Then come along.  After your ladyship,” he said, taking her elbows as if they were the handles of a wheelbarrow, and pushing her out before him through the narrow entrance to the summer-house.  On the threshold he turned for a moment; met Marian’s reproachful eyes with a wink; grinned; and disappeared.

For half an hour afterward Marian sat alone in the summer-house, thinking of the mistake she had made.  Then she returned to the Cottage, where she found Miss McQuinch writing in the library, and related to her all that had passed in the summer-house.  Elinor listened, seated in a rocking-chair, restlessly clapping her protended ankles together.  When she heard of Conolly’s relationship to Susanna, she kept still for a few moments, looking with widely opened eyes at Marian.  Then, with a sharp laugh, she said: 

“Well, I beg his pardon.  I thought he was another of that woman’s retainers.  I never dreamt of his being her brother.”

Marian was horror stricken.  “You thought—!  Oh, Nelly, what puts such things into your head?”

“So would you have thought it if you had the least gumption about people.  However, I was wrong; and I’m glad of it.  However, I was right about Marmaduke.  I told you so, over and over and over again.”

“I know you did; but I didnt think you were in earnest.”

“No, you never can conceive my being in earnest when I differ from you, until the event proves me to be right.”

“I am afraid it will kill Constance.”

“Dont, Marian!” cried Elinor, giving her chair a violent swing.

“I am quite serious.  You know how delicate she is.”

“Well, if she dies of any sentiment, it will be wounded vanity.  Serve her right for allowing a man to be forced into marrying her.  I believe she knows in her soul that he does not care about her.  Why else should she be jealous of me, of you, and of everybody?”

“It seems to me that instead of sympathizing with the unfortunate girl, both you and Marmaduke exult in her disappointment.”

“I pity her, poor little wretch.  But I dont sympathize with her.  I dont pity Marmaduke one bit:  if the whole family cuts him he will deserve it richly, but I do sympathize with him.  Can you wonder at his preference?  When we went to see that woman last June I envied her.  There she was, clever, independent, successful, holding her own in the world, earning her living, fascinating a crowd of people, whilst we poor respectable nonentities sat pretending to despise her—­as if we were not waiting until some man in want of a female slave should offer us our board and lodging and the privilege of his lordly name with ‘Missis’ before it for our lifelong services.  You may make up as many little bread-and-butter romances as you please, Marian; but I defy you to give me any sensible reason why Marmaduke should chain himself for ever to a little inane thing like Constance, when he can enjoy the society of a capable woman like that without binding himself at all.”