"Thank you," I rejoined, dryly, speaking with a tightness at my throat.
"He thinks you quite good-looking, Miriam, I assure you; he was agreeably disappointed, even after what he had heard of your appearance—from the Stanburys, I suppose—and observed that there were fine elements in your character, too, if properly shaped and combined—a great deal of 'come out.'"
"He is truly gracious and condescending," I replied, "I thank him humbly."
"It was very plain that you admired him, Miriam. Any one could see that. I noticed his internal amusement at your fluttered manner."
"Did he tell you what his thoughts were, Evelyn, or do you merely interpret them after your own fashion?" I asked, sternly.
"Oh, of course he said nothing of the kind; I would not have permitted it, had he wished to. Poor fellow! I hope you will be kinder to him than I have been," and she sighed heavily. "He is yours now to have and to hold, you know."
"You have not shown your usual good taste, Evelyn," I remarked, coolly, "in rejecting so handsome and fascinating a man, and making him over to another, unsolicited. Claude Bainrothe would suit you exactly, I think; and, as to money, he will have enough, no doubt, for both. If not"—I hesitated—colored—sighed.
"If not, what, Miriam?" she urged, stamping her little foot impatiently as my answer was delayed. "If not, what then, Miriam? Speak out!"
"If not, dear sister, I will try to make up the deficiency," I said, embracing her. "Now you understand my intentions."
I was learning to love my sister, and happy in the power to please her, unconscious that an invisible barrier was rising from that hour, never to be put aside.