“Yes, my dear; I get dull by myself,” said Mrs Crichton, with a sigh. “Not that we have much amusement to offer them.”
“I don’t know that they mind about amusements,” said James.
He was dying for a confidant; for Jem could never keep his affairs to himself, but he did not quite dare to enlighten his mother as to his wishes, for fear she should betray them by over-zeal to the Miss Haywards. It had not quite come to the point of announcing his intentions to Hugh, who would not easily have been convinced of their seriousness. Arthur, who knew the names and charms of most of Jem’s many sweethearts, would have been his natural outlet; but how could he tell his love-story to him? Nevertheless, as they sat smoking together that very evening, out it all came—provoked, certainly, by a little joke about the three bouquets; and Arthur was so much amused at the notion of Jem’s choice that the latter was soon absorbed in convincing him that he had finally made it; which, by his unusual modesty, he at last succeeded in doing.
“Why, you know, you’re irresistible.”
“But she never would be attracted by the same sort of humbug that goes down with most girls.”
“Oh, come now, Jem, you don’t mean to say so. I don’t think I should like her the better for that.”
“She’d look to what one really was.”
“I’d try a little humbug, though, now and then.”
Jem laughed.
“I shan’t be here when they come, you see. It’s supposed they will suit Hugh; and he is just the sort of fellow—”