Maria suffered as she had never suffered before.  George Ramsey was her first love; the others had been merely childish playthings.  She was strangling love, and that is a desperate deed, and the strangler suffers more than love.  Maria, with the memory of that marriage which was, indeed, no marriage, but the absurd travesty of one, upon her, was in almost a suicidal frame of mind.  She knew perfectly well that if it had not been for that marriage secret which she held always in mind, that George Ramsey would continue to call, that they would become engaged, that her life might be like other women’s.  And now he was down there with Lily—­Lily, in her green gown.  She knew just how Lily would look at him, with her beautiful, soft eyes.  She hated her, and yet she hated herself more than she hated her.  She told herself that she had no good reason for hating another girl for doing what she herself had done—­for falling in love with George Ramsey.  She knew that she should never have made a confidant of another girl, as Lily had made of her.  She realized a righteous contempt because of her weakness, and yet she felt that Lily was the normal girl, that nine out of ten would do exactly what she had done.  And she also had a sort of pity for her.  She could not quite believe that a young man like George Ramsey could like Lily, who, however beautiful she was, was undeniably silly.  But then she reflected how young men were popularly supposed not to mind a girl’s being silly if she was beautiful.  Then she ceased to pity Lily, and hated her again.  She became quite convinced that George Ramsey would marry her.

She had locked her door, and lay on her bed fully dressed.  She made up her mind that when Aunt Maria came she would pretend to be asleep.  She felt that she could not face Aunt Maria’s wondering questions.  Then she reflected that Aunt Maria would be home soon, and a malicious joy seized her that Lily would not have George Ramsey long to herself.  Indeed, it was scarcely half-past eight before Maria heard the side-door open.  Then she heard, quite distinctly, Aunt Maria’s voice, although she could not distinguish the words.  Maria laughed a little, smothered, hysterical laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

It was, in fact, ludicrous.  Aunt Maria entered the sitting-room, a grotesque figure in her black skirt bundled up under Maria’s waterproof, which was powdered with snow.  She wore her old black bonnet, and the wind had tipped that rakishly to one side.  She stared at Lily and George Ramsey, who both rose with crimson faces.

“Good-evening,” Lily ventured, feebly.

“Good-evening, Miss Stillman,” George said, following the girl’s lead.  Then, as he was more assured, he added that it was a very stormy night.

George had been sitting on one side of the stove, Lily on the other, in the chairs which Maria and Lily had occupied before the young man’s arrival.  They had both sprung up with a guilty motion when Aunt Maria entered.  Aunt Maria stood surveying them.  She did not return their good-evenings, nor George’s advance with regard to the weather.  Her whole face expressed severe astonishment.  Her thin lips gaped slightly, her pale eyes narrowed.  She continued to look at them, and they stood before her like culprits.