“So, then, you did not think the Rajah's daughter should be a Moor?” said Josephine, half haughtily. “It is very sad to see what disappointments I had caused.” Neither the saucy toss of the head, nor the tone that accompanied these words, were lost upon Polly, who began to feel at once that she understood the speaker.
“And your brother,” continued Josephine, “is the famous Tom Dill I have heard such stories about?”
“Poor Tom! he is anything rather than famous.”
“Well, he is remarkable; he is odd, original, or whatever you would call it. Fred told me he never met any one like him.”
“Tom might say as much of Mr. Conyers, for, in truth, no one ever showed him such kindness.”
“Fred told me nothing of that; but perhaps,” added she, with a flashing eye, “you were more in his confidence than I was.”
“I knew very little of Mr. Conyers; I believe I could count on the fingers of one hand every time I met him.”
“How strange that you should have made so deep an impression, Miss Dill!”
“I am flattered to hear it, but more surprised than flattered.”
“But I don't wonder at it in the least,” said Josephine, boldly. “You are very handsome, you are very graceful, and then—” She hesitated and grew confused, and stammered, and at last said, “and then there is that about you which seems to say, 'I have only to wish, and I can do it.'”