"Indeed she is," said Clary, withdrawing almost altogether the weight of her hand from his arm.
"And clever, too,—very clever; but—"
"But what?" asked Clary, and the softest, gentlest half-ounce of pressure was restored.
"Well;—nothing. I like her uncommonly;—but is she not quite,—quite,—quite—"
"She is quite everything that she ought to be, Ralph."
"I'm sure of that;—an angel, you know, and all the rest of it. But angels are cold, you know. I don't know that I ever admired a girl so much in my life." The pressure was again lessened,—all but annihilated. "But, somehow, I should never dream of falling in love with your cousin."
"Perhaps you may do so without dreaming," said Clary, as unconsciously she gave back the weight to her hand.
"No;—I know very well the sort of girl that makes me spoony." This was not very encouraging to poor Clary, but still she presumed that he meant to imply that she herself was a girl of the sort that so acted upon him. And the conversation went on in this way throughout the walk. There was not much encouragement to her, and certainly she did not say a word to him that could make him feel that she wanted encouragement. But still he had been with her, and she had been happy; and when they parted at the gate, and he again pressed her hand, she thought that things had gone well. "He must know that I have forgiven him now!" she said to herself.