“All!”
“Well?” said Lisabel, expectantly.
It certainly was a singular way in which to receive one's sister's announcement of her intended marriage; but, for worlds, I could not have spoken a syllable. I felt a weight on my chest—a sense of hot indignation which settled down into inconceivable melancholy.
Was this indeed all? A silly flirtation—a young lad's passion—a young girl's cool business-like reception of the same—the formal “speaking to papa,” and the thing was over! Was that love?
“Haven't you a word to say, Dora? I had better have told Penelope. But she was tired, and scolded me out of her room. Besides she might not exactly like this, for some reasons. It's rather hard; such an important thing to happen, and not a soul to congratulate one upon it.”
I asked, why might Penelope dislike it?
“Can't you see? Captain Treherne roving about the world, and Captain Treherne married and settled at home, make a considerable difference to Francis's prospects. No, I don't mean anything mean or murderous—you need not look so shocked—it is merely my practical way of regarding things. But what harm? If I did not have Treherne, somebody else would, and it would be none the better for Francis and Penelope.”
“You are very prudent and far-sighted: such an idea would never have entered my mind.”
“I daresay not. Just give me that brush, will you, child?”
She proceeded methodically to damp her long hair, and plait it up in those countless tails which gave Miss Lisabel Johnston's locks such a beautiful wave. Passing the glass, she looked into it, smiled, sighed.