After these commonplace remarks, Lily seated herself opposite George Ramsey, and there was a little silence.  Again the expression of admiration came into the young man’s face, and the girl read it with delight.  Sitting gracefully, her slender body outlined by the soft green of her dress, her radiant face showing above the ivory cameo brooch at her throat, she was charming.  George Ramsey owned to himself that Lily was certainly a great beauty, but all the same he thought regretfully of the other girl, who was not such a beauty, but who had somehow appealed to him as no other girl had ever done.  Then, too, Maria was in a measure new.  He had known Lily all his life; the element of wonder and surprise was lacking in his consciousness of her beauty, and she also lacked something else which Maria had.  Lily meant no more to him—­that is, her beauty meant no more to him—­than a symmetrical cherry-tree in the south yard, which was a marvel of scented beauty, humming with bees every spring.  He had seen that tree ever since he could remember.  He always looked upon it with pleasure when it was in blossom, yet it was not to him what a new tree, standing forth unexpectedly with its complement of flowers and bees, would have been.  It was very unfortunate for Lily that George had known her all his life.  In order really to attract him it would be necessary for him to discover something entirely new in her.

“It was very good of you to come in and stay with Miss Edgham while her aunt was gone,” said George.

He felt terribly at a loss for conversation.  He had, without knowing it, a sense of something underneath the externals which put a constraint upon him.

Lily had one of the truth-telling impulses which redeemed her from the artifices of her mother.

“Oh,” said she, “I wanted to come.  I proposed coming myself.  It is dull evenings at home, and I did not know that Maria would go to bed or that you would come in.”

“Well, mother has gone to that tea-party, too,” said George, “and I looked over here and saw the light, and I thought I would just run in a minute.”

For some unexplained reason tears were standing in Lily’s eyes and her mouth quivered a little.  George could not see, for the life of him, why she should be on the verge of tears.  He felt a little impatient, but at the same time she became more interesting to him.  He had never seen Lily weeping since the time when she was a child at school, and used to conceal her weeping little face in a ring of her right arm, as was the fashion among the little girls.

“This light must shine right in your sitting-room windows,” said Lily, in a faint voice.  She was considering how pitiful it was that George had not had the impulse to call upon her, Lily, when she was so lovely and loving in her green gown; and how even this little happiness was not really her own, but another girl’s.  She had not the least realization of how Maria was suffering, lying in her room directly overhead.