“Yes it is!” said Ethel firmly, not denying the charge, though reddening more than ever at finding her impression confirmed.
“Poor child! she is afraid!” said Flora tenderly; “but I will take care of you, Ethel. It is everything delightful. You are the very girl for such a heros de Roman, and it has embellished you more than all my Paris fineries.”
“Hush, Flora! We ought not to talk in this way, as if—”
“As if he had done more than walk with, and talk with, nobody else! How he did hate papa last night. I had a great mind to call papa off, in pity to him.”
“Don’t, Flora. If there were anything in it, it would not be proper to think of it, so I am going home to prevent it.” The words were spoken with averted face and heaving breath.
“Proper?” said Flora. “The Mays are a good old family, and our own grandmother was an honourable Ogilvie herself. A Scottish baron, very poor too, has no right to look down—”
“They shall not look down. Flora, it is of no use to talk. I cannot be spared from home, and I will not put myself in the way of being tempted to forsake them all.”
“Tempted!” said Flora, laughing. “Is it such a wicked thing?”
“Not in others, but it would be wrong in me, with such a state of things as there is at home.”
“I do not suppose he would want you for some years to come. He is only two-and-twenty. Mary will grow older.”