do, did not wish to seem ungracious; and yet . . .
"Will you stay to dinner?" she asked.
Marianne beamed with joy:
"Oh, I should love to, Auntie! Mamma knows I'm here; she'll understand . . ."
Constance was sorry that she had asked her; her nerves were feeling the strain of it all; but she was determined to control herself, to behave naturally and ordinarily. She could see it plainly: they were too fond of each other!
They were in love! Long before, she had seemed to guess it, when she saw them together, at her little dinners. The veriest trifle—an intonation of voice, a laughing phrase, the passing of a dish of fruit—had made her seem to guess it. Then the vague thought that went through her mind, like a little cloud, would vanish at once, leaving not even a shadow behind it. But the cloud had come drifting again and again, brought by a gesture, a glance, a how-do-you-do or good-bye, an appointment for a bicycle ride. On such occasions, the brothers had always gone too—so had Addie—and there had never been anything that was in the least incorrect; and at the little dinners there was never a joke that went too far, nor an attempt at flirtation, nor the very least resemblance to lovemaking. And therefore those vague thoughts had always drifted away again, like clouds; and Constance would think:
