"Of course, you have a thousand lovers, Verona?"
"I? Certainly not!"
"Oh, but—it cannot be true; why there is Dominga, not a quarter so pretty, and she has had dozens. Even Lizzie Trotter has a young man in the commissariat."
"And I have not, even what you call one young man, in anything."
"You are so pretty, you will get millions of offers; mother wishes us all to marry. Even when Blanche went, and it was such a poor match, she was glad. She expects Dominga to marry an officer. Ah, Rona, you are not even listening," she protested in a little piteous wail, "and I thought you might like to hear all about it."
"Of course I am listening," replied her sister, from the interior of an open box over which she was stooping; "you were saying something about Dominga and an officer."
"Yes, and we hardly know one. Father was in the army himself, the 51st Hussars, and yet he will never call on the mess, although friends of his have been in the station. Father is so odd—nothing will make him go near a regiment, not even mother, and she can generally get him to do whatever she chooses; he has given in to her about everything, except about you."
"What about me?" asked her sister, quickly raising her head; "but no, don't tell me—it is better not."
"Oh, mother will tell you herself; it is no secret! She has told everyone in Manora that she did not want you to come out. It was another girl to marry, she said, and no money! She declared you could get a nice situation at home; and you were a stranger, a black stranger, and would ruin us with your bad example and silly English notions. Even Nani said you were like the Dhoby's donkey, for you neither belonged to the house, or the river! You know how she talks in proverbs?"
"Yes," assented Verona in a faint voice.