ok so ugly as
crying, and if I lost my looks and met Edward he might not care for me.
He'd be disappointed, I mean--but I haven't lost my looks; I am just as
pretty as I was when I came out first. Am I not, Alice?'

'Indeed you are, dear.'

'You don't think I have gone off a bit--now do tell me? and I want to
ask you what you think of my hair in a fringe; Papa says it isn't
classical, but that's nonsense. I wish I knew how Edward would like me
to wear it.'

'But you mustn't think of him, Olive dear; you know mother would never
hear of it.'

'I can't help thinking of him. . . . And now I will tell you something,
Alice, if you promise me on your word of honour not to scold me, and,
above all, not to tell mamma.'

'I promise.'

'Well, the other day I was walking at the end of the lawn feeling so
very miserable. You don't know how miserable I feel; you are never
miserable, for you think of nothing but your books. Well (mind, you have
given me your word not to tell anyone), I saw Captain Hibbert riding
along the road, and when he saw me he stopped his horse and kissed his
hand to me.'

'And what did you do?'

'I don't know what I did. He called me, and then I saw Milord coming
along the road, and fled but, oh, isn't it cruel of mamma to have
forbidden Edward to come and see us? and he loving me as much as ever.'

This was not the moment to advise her sister against clandestine
meetings with Captain Hibbert; she was sobbing violently, and Alice had
to assure her again and again that no one who had been the belle of the
season had ever remained an old maid. But Alice (having well in mind the
fate that had befallen May Gould) grew not a little alarmed when, in the
course of next week, she suddenly noticed that Olive was in the habit of
going out for long walks alone, and that she invariably returned in a
state of high spirits, all the languor and weariness seeming to have
fallen from her.

Alice once thought of following her sister. She watched her open the
wicket and walk across the meadows towards the Lawler domain. There was
a bypath there leading to the highroad, but the delicacy of their
position in relation to the owners prevented the Bartons from ever
making use of it. Nor did Alice fail to notice that about the same time,
Barnes, on the pretence of arranging the room for the evening, would
strive to drive her from her writing-table, and beds were made and
unmade, dresses were taken out of the wardrobe, and