"If she meant anything, it was folly. And, after all, what is this dreadful quarrel between us and the Desmonds all about? It lives in Aunt Priscilla's brain. I'll tell you what I think, Monica. I think Aunt Priscilla was once in love with old Mr. Desmond, and mother cut her out; and now, just because she has been disappointed in her own love-affair, she wants to thwart you in yours."
"She doesn't, indeed. Any one but Mr. Desmond might show me attention, and she would be pleased. She was quite glad when Mr. Ryde—well—when he made himself agreeable to me."
"From all you told me of him, he must have made himself dis-agreeable. I'm perfectly certain I should hate Mr. Ryde, and I'm equally sure I should like Mr. Desmond. What did he say to you, darling, when you refused to meet him even with me?" She lays great stress on this allusion to herself.
"He said I might do as I chose, but that he would meet me again, whether I liked it or not, and soon!"
"Now, that's the lover for me!" says Kit, enthusiastically. "No giving in, no [shilly-shallying], but downright determination. He's an honest man, and we all know what an honest man is,—'the noblest work of God.' I'm certain he will keep his word, and I do hope I shall be with you when next you meet him, as I should like to make friends with him."
At this moment it occurs to Monica that she never before knew how very, very fond she is of Kit.
"Oh, well, I don't suppose I can see him again for ever so long," she says. But even as the words pass her lips she knows she does not mean them, and remembers with a little throb of pleasure that he had said he would see her again soon. Soon! why, that might mean this evening,—now,—any moment! Instinctively she lifts her head and looks around her, and there, just a little way off, is a young man coming quickly towards her, bareheaded and in evening dress.
"I told you how it would be," says Kit, in a nervous whisper, taking almost a bit out of poor Monica's arm in her excitement. "Oh, when I have a lover I hope he will be like he."
Her grammar has gone after her nerve.
Monica is silent: some color has gone from her cheeks, and her heart is beating faster. It is her very first affaire, so we must forgive her: a little frightened shadow has fallen into her eyes, and altogether she looks a shade younger than usual: she is troubled in spirit, and inclined to find fault with the general management of things.