“You wrong at least Mr. Emlyn, for it was he who first said to me, ‘Lily Mordaunt is a poem.’”
“Did he? I shall love him for that. How pleased Lion will be!”
“Mr. Melville seems to have an extraordinary influence over your mind,” said Kenelm, with a jealous pang.
“Of course. I have neither father nor mother: Lion has been both to me. Aunty has often said, ‘You cannot be too grateful to your guardian; without him I should have no home to shelter you, no bread to give you.’ He never said that: he would be very angry with aunty if he knew she had said it. When he does not call me Fairy he calls me Princess. I would not displease him for the world.”
“He is very much older than you; old enough to be your father, I hear.”
“I dare say. But if he were twice as old I could not love him better.”
Kenelm smiled: the jealousy was gone. Certainly not thus could any girl, even Lily, speak of one with whom, however she might love him, she was likely to fall in love.
Lily now rose up, rather slowly and wearily. “It is time to go home: aunty will be wondering what keeps me away,—come.”
They took their way towards the bridge opposite to Cromwell Lodge.
It was not for some minutes that either broke silence. Lily was the first to do so, and with one of those abrupt changes of topic which were common to the restless play of her secret thoughts.