ople "shriek with laughing;"
but Mrs. Dennistoun's gravity remained unbroken. Perhaps her extreme
seriousness had something in it that was rather ridiculous too. It was a
relief when he went off to his supper, attended by Elinor, and Mrs.
Dennistoun was left alone over her fire. She had a slight sense that she
had been absurd, as well as that Philip Compton had lacked breeding,
which did not make her more comfortable. Was it possible that she would
be glad when it was all over, and her child gone--her child gone, and
with that man! Her child, her little delicately bred, finely nurtured
girl, who had been wrapped in all the refinements of life from her
cradle, and had never heard a rough word, never been allowed to know
anything that would disturb her virginal calm!--yet now in a moment
passed away beyond her mother to the unceremonious wooer who had no
reverence for her, none of the worship her mother expected. How strange
it was! Yet a thing that happened every day. Mrs. Dennistoun sat over
the fire, though it was not cold, and listened to the voices and
laughter in the next room. How happy they were to be together! She did
not, however, dwell upon the fact that she was alone and deserted, as
many women would have done. She knew that she would have plenty of time
to dwell on this in the lonely days to come. What occupied her was the
want of more than manners, of any delicate feeling in the lover who had
seized with rude caresses upon Elinor in her mother's presence, and the
fact that Elinor did not object, nor dislike that it should be so. That
she should feel forlorn was no wonderful thing; that did not disturb her
mind. It was the other matter about Elinor that pained and horrified
her, she could not tell why; which, perhaps, was fantastic, which,
indeed, she felt sure must be so.

They were so long in the dining-room, where Compton had his supper, that
when that was over it was time to go to bed. Still talking and laughing
as if they could never exhaust either the fountain of talk or the mirth,
which was probably much more sheer pleasure in their meeting than
genuine laughter produced by any wit or _bon mot_, they came out into
the passage, and stood by Mrs. Dennistoun and the housemaid, who had
brought her the keys and was now fastening the hall door. A little
calendar hung on the wall beneath the lamp, and Phil Compton walked up
to it and with a laugh read out the date. "Sixth September," he said,
and turned round