"I liked him better six months ago," she said to herself. "I was almost in love with him. I think I was quite in love with him one day when he seemed to like Ina better than he liked me. How horribly selfish, and mean, and small to be jealous! And jealous of one's own sister!"
Lady Horace was a little depressed too, if indeed anyone so equable could be depressed. Elsie accounted for it by the fact that Lord Horace had been aggravating. Lord Horace had occasionally fits of spleen and regret that he had ever left England—fits which were generally brought about by a perusal of his bank-book, and which usually ended in a grumble over dinner, and a reactionary burst of effusion to his wife.
He was away just now, helping Frank Hallett in his electioneering business, and the sisters were alone. They were sitting out in the verandah together one evening. Ina was in a squatter's chair, and Elsie sat on the edge of the verandah, and leaned her head against Ina's knees.
"Ina," she said suddenly, "I wish I wasn't such a wretch."
"What makes you say that, El?"
"I don't know. Frank Hallett, I suppose. It's perfectly horrid of me to want to keep him dangling in a string. Why don't I marry him straight away?"
"Oh, why not?"
"I don't know. That's just it. I like him. He is the only man I have ever been able to imagine kissing me without a shudder."
"Elsie!"
"Well, it always comes to that in time. There was a moment when I was almost in love with him."
"Almost!"
"How tragically you say that! There was a moment when it came over me that I had snubbed him too severely and that he had deserted me for you; and I believe I threw myself on the bed and cried out of grief and mortification."
"I saw you," said Ina, "and I knew from that moment that you cared for Frank Hallett, and that you ought to marry him."
