At another time Christie would have questioned the convincing quality of this proof, but she was too much shocked at her father's first suggestion, to think of anything else.
“You don't mean to say, father, that you are talking seriously of these men—your friends—whom we see every day—and our only company?”
“No, no!” said Mr. Carr hastily; “you misunderstand. I don't suppose that Jessie or you—”
“Or ME! Am I included?”
“You don't let me speak, Christie. I mean, I am not talking seriously,” continued Mr. Carr, with his most serious aspect, “of you and Jessie in this matter; but it may be a serious thing to these young men to be thrown continually in the company of two attractive girls.”
“I understand—you mean that we should not see so much of them,” said Christie, with a frank expression of relief so genuine as to utterly discompose her father. “Perhaps you are right, though I fail to discover anything serious in the attentions of young Kearney to Jessie—or—whoever it may be—to me. But it will be very easy to remedy it, and see less of them. Indeed, we might begin to-day with some excuse.”
“Yes—certainly. Of course!” said Mr. Carr, fully convinced of his utter failure, but, like most weak creatures, consoling himself with the reflection that he had not shown his hand or committed himself. “Yes; but it would perhaps be just as well for the present to let things go on as they were. We'll talk of it again—I'm in a hurry now,” and, edging himself through the door, he slipped away.
“What do you think is father's last idea?” said Christie, with, I fear, a slight lack of reverence in her tone, as her sister reentered the room. “He thinks George Kearney is paying you too much attention.”
“No!” said Jessie, replying to her sister's half-interrogative, half-amused glance with a frank, unconscious smile.
“Yes, and he says that Fairfax—I think it's Fairfax—is equally fascinated with ME.”