Florence coloured deeply, but made no reply.
“And I’ll tell you why I am convinced of it. In the mention of anything heroic or daring, or in allusion to any trait of deep devotion or pathetic tenderness, his lip would tremble and his voice falter, and then catching himself, and evidently ashamed of his weakness, he would come out with some silly, or even heartless remark, as though to mask his confusion and give him time to recover himself!”
“I never noticed this,” said Florence, coldly. “Indeed, I must confess to a much less critical study of his character than you have bestowed on him.”
“You are unjust yourself. It was you first pointed out this trait in him to me.”
“I forget it, then, that’s all,” said she, captiously.
“Oh, I knew he was ashamed of being thought romantic.”
“I thought I had asked you to talk of something or somebody else, Milly. Let us, at least, select a topic we can think and speak on with some approach to agreement.”
Accustomed to bear with Florence’s impatience and her capricious humours as those of an invalid, Emily made no answer, but drew out her work from a basket and prepared to begin.
“You needn’t hope to make much progress with your embroidery, Milly. You’ll have no one to read out the Faust or the Winler Night’s Tale to-day.”
“Ah, that’s true, and Joseph won’t be here till Saturday,” said she sighing, “not to say that I don’t suspect he’ll have much time to bestow on reading aloud.”