"He struck me as being a very attractive young man," ventures Miss Penelope absently.
"Humph!" says Miss Priscilla.
"And—but that would be impossible in one of his name—a very lovable young man," says Miss Penelope, timidly.
"Hah!" says Miss Priscilla: this ejaculation is not meant for surprise or acquiescence, but is merely a warlike snort.
"And very loving, too," says Miss Penelope, dreamily. "I never saw such eyes in my life! and he never took them off her."
"Penelope," says Miss Priscilla, with such a sudden and awful amount of vehemence as literally makes Miss Penelope jump, "I am ashamed of you. Whatever we—that is" (slightly confused) "you may think about that young man, please keep it to yourself, and at least let me never hear you speak of a Desmond in admiring terms."
So saying, she stalks from the rooms and drives down to the village to execute a commission that has been hanging over her for a fortnight, and which she chooses to-day to fulfil, if only to prove to the outer world that she is in no wise upset by the afternoon excitement.
Yet in a very short time she returns from her drive, and with a countenance so disturbed that Miss Penelope's heart is filled with fresh dismay.
"What is it?" she says, following Miss Priscilla into her own room. "You have heard something further; you have seen——"
"Yes, I have seen him—young Desmond," says Miss Priscilla, with an air of much agitation. "It was just outside the village, on my way home; and he was carrying a little hurt child in his arms, and he was hushing it so tenderly; and—the little one was looking up in his face—and he kissed it—and——Why isn't he a bad, wicked young man?" cries Miss Priscilla, in a frenzy of despair, bursting into tears.