“My poor dear Livy, don't give way so; the fault, I know, was all mine. Let me try if I cannot repair it Have you positively refused him?”
She nodded, but could not speak.
“Did you say that there was no hope,—that your sentiments could never change?”
“I did.”
“Come, that's not so bad; men never believe that. You did n't say that your affections were engaged?”
“No!”
“There 's a dear child,” said she, kissing her neck; “I knew you 'd not be guilty of such folly. And how did you part, Livy,—coldly, or in affectionate sorrow?”
“Coldly; we did not shake hands.”
“That's right; all as it ought to be. It is a sad blunder, but I hope not irreparable. Cheer up, child; depend upon it, my scarf is not so fatal as Aunt Fanny's blessing.”
“Ah, then, my dear, I don't see much difference in the end,” said that redoubtable lady herself, who issued from a small conservatory off the drawing-room, where she had lain in wait for the last half hour. “I heard it, my dears, and a nice hash you made of it between you, with your signals and telescopes,”—we believe she meant telegraphs; “you threw out the dirty water, now, in earnest!” And so saying, she proceeded to disentangle herself from a prickly creeper which had a most pertinacious hold of what Linton called her “scalp-lock.”