"Thank you," answered the girl, "but I prefer to choose my own."
Fortunately--or the interview might have ended in another quarrel--
the cause of all the trouble at this moment entered the room, and
the countess, whispering a few final words of instruction to him as
she passed out, left them together.
Mary took a chair in the centre of the room, at equal distance from
both doors. Lord C-, finding any sort of a seat uncomfortable
under the circumstances, preferred to stand with his back to the
mantelpiece. Dead silence was maintained for a few seconds, and
then Mary, drawing the daintiest of handkerchiefs from her pocket,
began to cry. The countess must have been a poor diplomatist, or
she might have thought of this; or she may have remembered her own
appearance on the rare occasions when she herself, a big, raw-boned
girl, had attempted the softening influence of tears, and have
attached little importance to the possibility. But when these
soft, dimpled women cry, and cry quietly, it is another matter.
Their eyes grow brighter, and the tears, few and far between, lie
like dewdrops on a rose leaf.
Lord C- was as tender-hearted a lout as ever lived.
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