"Angelic, in short. You and Sutton seem to be of the same opinion."
"Yes; and you will not wonder when you see her. So lovely, so unlike other girls. There are not two opinions about Hermione. At least—no, not really two; only, of course, people see differently. But I cannot tell you how she is beloved in the village—almost worshipped. The surliest man there can't say a rough word to Hermione. We all look up to her. Yes, she is younger than I am; but what of that? One looks up to another because of what she is, not because of any particular age."
"Well, perhaps—no. And Hermione is pretty?"
"She is—no, I will not describe her. You must see for yourself."
"She could be an arrant little fury, I remember, if anybody crossed her will. You were the victim occasionally."
"Was I? I have forgotten. Nothing of the kind ever happens now."
"Why, no. At nineteen one doesn't expect tornadoes of wrath."
"But there is no temper—no readiness to be vexed. She is sweetness itself. Nothing ever puts her out. If she had a temper as a child, that is all over. You had better not set me off about her, because I shall not know when to stop. I think—I almost think I could die for Hermione."
Marjory spoke the last words under her breath, and the downcast eyes glowed with a fervour of devotion. Harvey was touched, yet entertained. His easy and pliant nature, though not without its reservoirs of strong feeling, was hardly capable of understanding Marjory. Before he had decided what to say, she added, "But I ought to go home, and I must not keep you from them longer."
Harvey lifted his hat, and shook hands. In the act of turning away he stopped short, faced her once more, his sunburnt cheek slightly flushing, and said, "My old friends will have to congratulate me."