Anastatia Dodd, on the particular morning in question, had not appeared at breakfast. The fragile little lady was suffering from a cold in her head. She was in bed, perusing in undisturbed comfort a harmless novel. But the novel disappeared under the clothes with amazing celerity as the voice of her sister-in-law demanded admission. The mistress of the house affectionately inquired if she felt equal to a short conversation. In some trepidation Anastatia signified her acquiescence. Her sister-in-law pointed out to her that old Mr. Warrender had been very attentive lately. Anastatia innocently answered that "He was a dear old man."
"Oh, my dear, I am so glad, so very glad, to hear you say so," said Mrs. Dodd.
"But why glad, Cecilia?"
"My love, your brother and I thought it was so, and that you encouraged him. Has he spoken to you yet? He has said nothing to John."
"Spoken, Cecilia, to me; about what?"
"This is affectation, dear; you can't pretend to be blind to what is apparent to all of us."
"Oh, Cecilia, how can you?" sobbed the vicar's sister, blushing to her ears and burying her face in her pillows.
For forty years Anastatia Dodd had lived in maiden meditation fancy free. True, she had taken a lively interest in all her brother's curates, but it was always a professional interest and purely Platonic. But now she blushed, blushed as she had never blushed before.
What woman is displeased at hearing that she has an admirer? Who among us would fail to believe what we have, perhaps, secretly wished for in our heart of hearts?
That arch Machiavel, the vicar's wife, did not leave her sister-in-law till she was thoroughly convinced that Diggory Warrender was only waiting a favourable opportunity to make her a formal offer of his hand and heart.