"Of course," she went on, after I had been silent a little while, "I quite understand how such a piece of news must come as a great surprise to you, almost as though it would take your breath away, I dare say. I don't wonder you don't know what to say."
Still I was silent. I stood by the table, twisting the fringe of the table-cover in my hand.
"I don't want to press you now," continued she. "Take your time about it, and tell me your mind in a day or two."
"Did the squire ask you to ask me my mind?" I said then, hurriedly.
It was mother's turn to be silent at that. And I knew that I had guessed aright, and that the squire had probably only had his secret drawn from him against his will by some remark showing the mistake that mother too had made about his love for Joyce. I even felt sure that he had specially begged that I should not be spoken to on the matter.
"Squire Broderick was speaking mostly about your sister," answered mother, evasively. "You know I told you I felt it my duty to set him straight about what you allowed you had made him think mistakenly about. And he was very much relieved when I told him there was no engagement between Joyce and that nephew of his. It's plain to see he thinks no good of him."
"Gently, gently, mother," murmured father, in remonstrating tones.
"But I suppose in that way he came to guess what was in my mind about him and her, and thought it best to put it right," concluded mother.
Of course I saw in a moment that it had all happened exactly as I might have been sure from the squire it would happen. The knowledge gave me courage. "I will give my answer to the squire himself when he asks me," I said, bravely.
Mother looked at me. I fancied there was a half-apologetic look in her eyes.