Meanwhile, Mrs. Vavasour, left all alone in the sitting-room, stitched away in the lamplight, looking out from time to time into the dewy garden, where the two figures were pacing up and down.  The murmur of their voices reached her, and presently she also heard Madelon singing up above, and then the two went away out of hearing, and she could distinguish nothing in the silence but the rustling of her own work and the soft, inarticulate sounds of the early night.  She could guess pretty well what the result of that talk would be.  That very afternoon, going to Maria’s room on her return home, she had found the girl in an agony of weeping, and had learnt from her that Mr. Morris had just made her an offer, and that she had been obliged to tell him that she was already engaged—­and ’Oh! what could Mr. Morris think of her, and what would Horace think?’ cried poor Maria, filled with remorse.  And Mr. Morris cared for her so much; he had been so miserable when she had told him they must part, and said she was the only woman he had seen that he could care for; and that was the only reproach he had uttered, though she had treated him so badly.  And Horace did not care for her one bit now—­she could see it, she knew it, he was tired of her, and she was not clever enough for him, and would never make him a good wife.  All this our little-reticent Maria had sobbed out in answer to Mrs. Vavasour’s sympathising questions, with many entreaties to know what she had better do next.  Mrs. Vavasour could only advise her to say to Horace just what she had said to her, and she had sufficient confidence in Maria’s courage and good sense to trust that she would do so now, when matters had evidently come to a crisis.  But it was with the keenest interest she awaited the end of their conversation.

She had not to wait very long.  In a few minutes she saw Maria coming quickly across the lawn; she passed through the window and the room without looking up or speaking, and, with a little sob, disappeared.  Graham followed more slowly, and sitting down by the table, moodily watched his sister’s fingers moving rapidly to and fro.

“That is all over,” he said at last.

“What is all over?” inquired Mrs. Vavasour.

“Everything between Maria and me.  We have agreed upon one thing at last, at any rate.”

“I am sure it is for the best, Horace,” said Mrs. Vavasour, looking at him with her kind, gentle eyes.

“I don’t see how anything should be for the best when one has behaved like a brute, and knows it,” he answered, getting up, and beginning to walk up and down the room.

“Is it you who have been behaving like a brute, Horace?  I cannot fancy that.”

“I don’t know why not,” he answered gloomily; then, pausing in his walk, “No one knew of our engagement except ourselves and Aunt Barbara?” he asked.

“No one else was told.”

“Well, then, no great harm is done, so far as gossip goes.  You had better write to Aunt Barbara.  I shall go abroad at once.”