Mrs. Blunden still looked unsatisfied.
“But you must have a motive for proposing to go away before I have scarcely had time to say half a dozen sentences to my host.”
“Yes,” said Florence sadly, “and my principal one is that I dread the pang of parting, and long to have it over.”
Mrs. Blunden gave herself a cross shake.
“Really, child, you are too sentimental! You don’t mean to tell me that you shall half break your heart at saying good-by to two troublesome little boys and a fidgety old lady?”
“No,” Florence replied, with an effort at indifference. “I’ll not break my heart at parting with any one. I’m sorry I said anything about it; and we will go or stay, just as you please, Aunt Margaret.”
“As for Mr. Aylwinne, you have seen too little of him to feel any regrets on his account,” Mrs. Blunden went on, answering her own thoughts more than her niece’s words. “Neither is he the sort of man to captivate a young girl’s fancy. He is too staid—too reserved; besides, I have my doubts about him.”
“Doubts, Aunt Margaret?” cried Florence breathlessly. “What do you know? What have you heard?”
“Pooh! Nothing tangible, so never repeat it. But there’s no denying that he’s very eccentric; and it’s my own opinion that his brain is slightly affected. You know he had been in India for some years, which might account for it.”
Florence turned away from her in a pet. Mr. Aylwinne—the keen observer, the profound scholar, the man of business habits—declared not only eccentric, but something worse! It was a few minutes before she could answer her aunt’s remarks without betraying her annoyance.