"My dear Phyllis, what a curious girl you are! 'Forgive you!' as if I had not done so, ages and ages ago—if indeed there was anything to forgive. Surely you couldn't have thought me so vindictive, so unchristian, as to retain bitter feelings against you all this time?"
She has opened her childish blue eyes to their widest, and is gazing at me plaintively, as though grieved I should imagine her capable of any vile feeling.
"I sometimes feared—-" I stammer, utterly abashed in the presence of so much sweetness.
"You must put such ideas out of your head, Phyllis; they are very unworthy. I never harbor unforgiving thoughts, I should hope, towards any one—least of all towards you, my sister. Besides, I ought really to be thankful to you, if anything. Marmaduke and I would have been most unsuited to each other. He is far too exigeant and masterful for my taste. George is in every way more desirable."
I don't quite see all this, but reserve my sentiments.
"He is greatly to be liked," I say, with truth—honest, good-natured George Ashurst having won his way into my affections long since. "I don't know that I was ever more delighted about anything in my life."
"Yes, everybody will be pleased, I imagine—papa and mamma especially. I don't see how papa can make the faintest objection in any way. He must be gratified."
I think of Sir George's rent-roll, and have the words, "I should think so, indeed," upon the tip of my tongue, but, being desirous of keeping up friendly relations with Dora, refrain from uttering them. She evidently takes her good fortune as a matter of course, having ever rated herself at a high price, and believes she has got her bare deserts—no more.
"I hope you—that is, I hope he will be very good to you," I say, making the correction in time.
"I hope we will be very good to each other. Indeed, I see nothing to prevent our being quite happy and—comfortable. Don't you think he appears very fond of me?"