"Did he?"—with suppressed excitement. "And—and you—what did you say?"
"I didn't say much," says Miss Broughton, regretfully. "I might have said a great deal more, something kinder, more encouraging, you know; but I was so surprised and so——"
"Pleased?"—tenderly.
"Pleased! I should think so," with so much empressement that even Clarissa is taken aback. "I was never so delighted in my life, only, as I said before, a little confused, and couldn't think of anything pretty to say."
"I think it was far nicer your saying nothing," says Clarissa, very gently. She is a little disappointed in Georgie; a woman may be glad to marry a man, but she shouldn't say so, at least not exactly in such a cold-blooded fashion. "I can quite understand"—with sufficient hesitation to convince herself, at least, that she does not understand—"how you felt nervous in spite of your happiness."
"Oh, you always know everything," says Georgie, so lovingly that Clarissa hates herself for thinking even one unpleasant thought of her. "Well, he went on to say he never loved before. Now, honestly, Clarissa,"—in a thoroughly matter-of-fact tone,—"do you think that could be true?"
"Why shouldn't it be true?" says Clarissa, wishing with all her heart the other would be a little more sentimental over her own first love-affair, as she believes it to be.
"Well, yes, of course; he is rather young, and beauty goes a long way with some men."
Again Clarissa stares. She hadn't thought Georgie vain of her own charms. How difficult it is to know any one, even one's chiefest friend!
"Then he went on to say he could never feel real happiness again until he knew he was loved in return."