“If you do not wish to make a confidante of me, Josephine, I am sorry for it, but not offended.”
“No, no, aunt, it is not that,” burst she in; “it is to you and you alone, I wish to speak, and I will be as candid as yourself. I am not surprised at the contents of this letter. I mean, I was in a measure prepared for them.”
“That is to say, child, that he paid you certain attentions?”
She nodded assent.
“And how did you receive them? Did you let him understand that you were not indifferent to him,—that his addresses were agreeable to you?”
Another, but shorter, nod replied to this question.
“I must confess,” said the old lady, bridling up, “all this amazes me greatly. Why, child, it is but the other day you met each other for the first time. How, when, and where you found time for such relations as you speak of, I cannot imagine. Do you mean to tell me, Josephine, that you ever talked alone together?”
“Constantly, aunt!”
“Constantly!”
“Yes, aunt. We talked a great deal together.”