“Stuart!” breathed his mother, half rising from her chair. “What do you mean, Vane?”
“I mean, aunt, that Stuart loves Margery Daw, and says he will make her his wife.”
For a time there was no reply from Mrs. Crosbie, and Vane, turning, saw a heavy frown on her handsome face.
“You are jesting, of course, Vane?” she said, at last.
“Indeed, Aunt Constance, I am not,” returned Miss Charteris, quietly. “My news surprises you?”
“Surprises!” repeated Mrs. Crosbie. “I fail to understand you at all.”
Vane rose and knelt beside her aunt.
“Auntie, dear,” she said, gently, “you must not be hard on poor Stuart. Recollect, he has eyes, and this girl is beautiful. I have seen her, and love is——”
“Has he asked you to plead for him?” interrupted Mrs. Crosbie, coldly.
“No; he told me his secret this morning, urged by I know not what,” and Vane let her eyes wander away again. “Perhaps,” she went on, after a brief pause, “some idea of the warm interest I must ever have in him prompted him; but that I cannot tell. He spoke openly to me, and asked me to be her friend as I was his.”