“Let him want then. My dear little simpleton, it will do him good. The less he has me, the more he will value me.”
I observed that that was an odd doctrine with which to begin married life, but she laughed at me, and said the cases were altogether different.
Nevertheless, when Tuesday also passed, and no word from her adorer, Lisabel looked a little less easy. Not unhappy, our Lis was never seen unhappy since she was born, but just a little what we women call “fidgety;” a state of mind, the result of which generally affects other people rather than ourselves. In short, the mood for which, as children, we are whipped and sent to bed as “naughty;” as young women, petted, and pitied for “low spirits;” as elderly people, humoured on account of “nerves.”
On Wednesday morning when the post came, and brought no letter, Lisabel declared she would stay indoors no longer, but would go out for a drive.
“To the camp, as usual?” said Penelope.
Lisa laughed, and protested she should drive wherever she liked.
“Girls, will you come or not?”
Penelope declined, shortly. I said, I would go anywhere except to the camp, which I thought decidedly objectionable under the circumstances.
“Dora, don't be silly. But do just as you like. I can call at the Cedars for Miss Emery.”
“And Colin too, who will be exceedingly happy to go with you,” suggested Penelope.