In a minute or two, however, she recovered herself sufficiently to be aware that Sophie was alarmed about her.  The imperative necessity not to betray herself gave her a brief and superficial control.  Her mind was in confusion, and it was, perhaps, for this reason—­because she could not collect her faculties and analyze the situation—­that she was enabled to feel a gush of the natural, tender love for her sister—­a joy in her joy.  Knowing that such a mood could not last long, she hastened to make it available:  she bent down, and put her arms around Sophie’s neck.

“I’m so glad, darling! so happy!  How splendid! isn’t it?  What a perfect match!  Ah, Sophie, I sympathize with you with all my heart.  I couldn’t have wished you any thing better.”

This was doing very well.  Her manner was a little exaggerated; her speech was hurried, and almost mechanical.  She avoided looking Sophie in the face while the lies were coming out of her mouth (if they were real lies, and not a bastard kind of truth, good while spoken, and the next moment degenerating into falsehood).  Notwithstanding these minor defects, it was a very successful effort—­excitement, and even vehement emotion, were quite admissible in a warm-hearted girl who had her sister’s welfare nearly at heart, and much might be allowed to surprise.  Indeed, Sophie, though a good deal agitated, and even anxious, was not in the least suspicious or dissatisfied.  Such was the loyalty and humility of her own nature, that much stronger grounds would have failed to inspire misgivings.

“I thought you were going to be ill, at first,” she remarked, with a loving smile.  “Perhaps I told you too abruptly—­did I?  You see, I thought you half knew it already—­at least, that you suspected it—­and, then, to tell the truth, dear,” added she, with a bright smile in her eyes, “I didn’t think you’d care so much—­be so very glad, I mean.  There never was so sweet a sister as you.”

Cornelia felt that this must not go on any longer.  She could feel her cheeks getting hot, and her eyes bright—­very little more, and there would be an outburst.  She must leave the room at all hazards, and be by herself.

She got up, and stood unsteadily, with her cold hand to her hot forehead.

“I believe I don’t feel very well, Sophie.  I think I must have a little palpitation, or something.  I’ve been awfully dissipated, and all that, you know, with Aunt Margaret.  I feel a little run down.  Oh! it’s nothing serious.  Don’t tell papa! no—­don’t on any account.  I’ll just go to my room, and lie down for half an hour.  I shall be all right before tea-time.  You must tell me all the particulars afterward—­not just this moment.  Don’t mention any thing about me, you know, and don’t let any one come up.  Good-by till supper, dear. Au revoir.”

She got out of the room, not very gracefully, probably, but still she escaped.  A few hurried and uneven steps down the entry brought her to her own door.  She burst it open, entered, and locked it behind her in feverish haste.  Then, with a miserable sense of luxury, she flung herself on the bed, and was alone.