“For——” began the girl, and then she stopped.
“For me, of course,” said her aunt, suddenly standing up and dusting the crumbs off her apron. “Who else do you suppose?”
Poor Lily! the colour sank quickly from her cheeks, she was now as white as the table-cloth. Miserable girl! her little love idyl had been brief, uncertain, and uncomfortable—guiltily snatched moments of conversation—secret gifts of flowers—stealthy promises—incoherent farewells. She liked Tom Galway, good-looking, good-tempered, stupid Tom—her one hope had been that he would return and claim her when he got his company. He had not said so—in so many words—but somehow it was understood, and when they parted she had given him a little bunch of forget-me-nots, and he—he had kissed her hand! but then, of course, Tom was notoriously stupid. He had certainly paid court to her aunt; he had been obliged to walk and talk with her, to gain a footing in the Grove at all, and in this Tom displayed unusual craft. Now all the time he had been in earnest, as regarded Aunt Lavinia!—for she was rich and he was poor—and he had only been amusing himself with her. Oh, faithless—faithless—mercenary Tom!
“Well, have you nothing to say?” demanded Miss Browne rather shrilly. “How different you are to other girls! Why don’t you come round and kiss me, and congratulate me, eh?”
Lily rose—certainly Lily was a stoic—and came and laid a marble cheek against her aunt’s highly artistic skin.
“I—I—I—hope you will be happy, Aunt Lavinia,” she faltered.
“I’m sure I shall. Captain Galway is good-tempered, handsome, and passionately attached to me. You may make your mind quite easy about my future. Why do you look so white and odd? Is there one drawback? Come—speak out!”
“Don’t you—don’t you—think he is rather—rather——”
“What?” she snapped explosively.
“Rather—young?”