"Of myself?" recoiling. "No! What can you mean? What is it that I should say of myself?" Her cheeks are burning, her eyes are shamed and perplexed, but they have not fallen before his: she is evidently full of secret wonder. "It is for Cyril I plead, and for Cecilia," she says, after a strange pause.
"Cyril!" exclaims he, the most excessive relief in tone and gesture. "Does he want to marry Mrs. Arlington?"
"Yes. I know you have a prejudice against her,"—earnestly,—"but that is because you do not know her. She is the sweetest woman I ever met."
"This has been going on for a long time?"
"I think so. Cyril wished to marry her long ago, but she would not listen to him without auntie's consent. Was not that good of her? If I was in her place, I do not believe I should wait for any one's consent."
"I am sure"—dryly—"you would not."
"No, not even for my guardian's," replies she, provokingly; then, with a lapse into her former earnestness, "I want you to be good to her. She is proud, prouder than auntie even, and would not forgive a slight. And if her engagement to Cyril came to an end, he would never be happy again. Think of it."
"I do," thoughtfully. "I think it is most unfortunate. And she a widow, too!"
"But such a widow!" enthusiastically. "A perfect darling of a widow! I am not sure, after all,"—with rank hypocrisy,—"that widows are not to be preferred before mere silly foolish girls, who don't know their own minds half the time."
"Is that a description of yourself?" with an irrepressible smile.