"I still think that he would wish it."
"That is nonsense, aunt. It is indeed, for neither of us wish it." A lie on such a subject from a woman under such circumstances is hardly to be considered a lie at all. It is spoken with no mean object, and is the only bulwark which the woman has ready at her need to cover her own weakness.
"From what he said yesterday," continued Mrs. Winterfield, "I think it is your own fault."
"Pray,—pray do not talk in that way. It cannot be matter of any fault that two people do not want to marry each other."
"Of course I asked him no positive question. It would be indelicate even in me to have done that. But he spoke as though he thought very highly of you."
"No doubt he does. And so do I of Mr. Possitt."
"Mr. Possitt is a very excellent young man," said Mrs. Winterfield, gravely. Mr. Possitt was, indeed, her favourite curate at Perivale, and always dined at the house on Sundays between services, when Mrs. Winterfield was very particular in seeing that he took two glasses of her best port wine to support him. "But Mr. Possitt has nothing but his curacy."
"There is no danger, aunt, I can assure you."
"I don't know what you call danger; but Frederic seemed to think that you are always sharp with him. You don't want to quarrel with him, I hope, because I love him better than any one in the world?"
"Oh, aunt, what cruel things you say to me without thinking of them!"