“Lucy,” continued Mrs. Bazalgette, deepening, “there is a weight on my mind.”
Up sat Lucy in the bed, and two sapphire eyes opened wide and made terror lovely.
“Oh, aunt, what have you been doing? It is remorse, then, that will not let you sleep. Ah! I see! your flirtations—your flirtations—this is the end of them.”
“My flirtations!” cried the other, in great surprise. “I never flirt. I only amuse myself with them.” *
*In strict grammar this “them” ought to refer to
“flirtations;” but Lucy's aunt did not talk strict grammar.
Does yours?
“You—never—flirt? Oh! oh! oh! Mr. Christopher, Mr. Horne, Sir George Healey, Mr. M'Donnell, Mr. Wolfenton, Mr. Vaughan—there! oh, and Mr. Dodd!”
“Well, at all events, it's not for any of those fools I get out of my bed at this time of night. I have a weight on my mind; so do be serious, if you can. Lucy, I tried all yesterday to hide it from myself, but I cannot succeed.”
“What, dear aunt?”
“That your gown fits me ever so much better than my own.” She sighed deeply.
Lucy smiled slyly; but she replied, “Is not that fancy?”