"You do not speak fairly of your cousin Dorothy," retorted Lady Crawford. "She is a modest girl, and I love her deeply."
"Her father would not agree with you," replied Dorothy.
"Perhaps not," responded the aunt. "Her father's conduct causes me great pain and grief."
"It also causes me pain," said Dorothy, sighing.
"But, Malcolm," continued the old lady, putting down her book and turning with quickened interest toward my other self, "who, suppose you, is the man with whom Dorothy has become so strangely entangled?"
"I cannot tell for the life of me," answered Malcolm No. 2. "Surely a modest girl would not act as she does."
"Surely a modest girl would," replied Aunt Dorothy, testily. "Malcolm, you know nothing of women."
"Spoken with truth," thought I.
The old lady continued: "Modesty and love have nothing whatever to do with each other. When love comes in at the door, modesty flies out at the window. I do pity my niece with all my heart, and in good truth I wish I could help her, though of course I would not have her know my feeling. I feign severity toward her, but I do not hesitate to tell you that I am greatly interested in her romance. She surely is deeply in love."
"That is a true word, Aunt Dorothy," said the lovelorn young woman. "I am sure she is fathoms deep in love."