“But how, child,—where?”
“Here, aunt, as we used to stroll together every morning through the wood or in the garden; then as we went on the river or to the waterfall.”
“I can comprehend nothing of all this, Josephine. I know you mean to deal openly with me; so say at once, how did this intimacy begin?”
“I can scarcely say how, aunt, because I believe we drifted into it. We used to talk a great deal of ourselves, and at length we grew to talk of each other,—of our likings and dislikings, our tastes and our tempers. And these did not always agree!”
“Indeed!”
“No, aunt,” said she, with a heavy sigh. “We quarrelled very often; and once,—I shall not easily forget it,—once seriously.”
“What was it about?”
“It was about India, aunt; and he was in the wrong, and had to own it afterwards and ask pardon.”
“He must know much more of that country than you, child. How came it that you presumed to set up your opinion against his?”
“The presumption was his,” said she, haughtily. “He spoke of his father's position as something the same as my father's. He talked of him as a Rajah!”