Henderson was in turn annoyed. “You can tell him anything you like. I'm no more responsible for his speculations than for his domestic concerns.”
“Now you are offended. It's not nice of you to put me in the wrong when you know how impulsive I am. I wish I didn't let my feelings run away with me.” This said reflectively, and looking away from him. And then, turning towards him with wistful, pleading eyes: “Do you know, I sometimes wish I had never seen you. You have so much power to make a person very bad or very good.”
“Come, come,” said Henderson, rising, “we mustn't quarrel about an Englishman—such old friends.”
“Yes, we are very old friends.” The girl rose also, and gave him her hand. “Perhaps that's the worst of it. If I should lose your esteem I should go into a convent.” She dropped his hand, and snatching a bunch of violets from the table, fixed them in his button-hole, looking up in his face with vestal sweetness. “You are not offended?”
“Not a bit; not the least in the world,” said Henderson, heartily, patting the hand that still lingered upon his lapel.
When he had gone, Carmen sank into her chair with a gesture of vexation, and there were hard lines in her sweet face. “What an insensible stick!” Then she ran up-stairs to her mother, who sat in her room reading one of the town-weeklies, into which some elderly ladies look for something to condemn.
“Well?”
“Such a stupid evening! He is just absorbed in that girl from Brandon. I told him we were going abroad.”
“Going abroad! You are crazy, child. New York is forty times as amusing.”
“And forty times as tiresome. I'm sick of it. Mamma, don't you think it would be only civil to ask Mr. Lyon to a quiet dinner before he goes?”