"Brian himself," says the Squire.
"I like that in him," says Miss Priscilla. "Well, George, if you will look upon that as [settled], so shall I."
"So be it," says the squire—"Eh, my dear? but doesn't it make us feel old to be discussing the love-affairs of these young things, when it seems only yesterday that we—that you and I, Priscilla——"
"That is all buried long ago: don't rake it up. It died when first your eyes fell on her," says Miss Blake, hurriedly.
"I was a fool," says the squire. "But, somehow, since I have been talking to you, I don't think I'm going to die this time, and old scenes came back to me, and—I suppose it is too late now, Priscilla?"
There is no mistaking his meaning.
"Oh, yes; a whole lifetime too late," says Miss Priscilla, with a soft, faint blush that would not have misbecome a maiden in her teens. "But I am glad we are friends again, George."
She pressed his hand with real affection, and then colors again warmly, as though afraid of having discovered herself in the act of committing an indiscretion. Could that gentle pressure be called forward, or light, or unseemly? Terrible thought!
"So am I, my dear," says the squire. And then again, "You won't think of it, then, Priscilla?"
"No, no," says Miss Blake, feeling flattered at his persistence, and then she actually laughs out loud, and The Desmond laughs too, though feebly; and then the doctor comes in again, and Miss Priscilla goes home, to tell Miss Penelope, in the secrecy of her chamber, and with the solemnity that befits the occasion, all about the squire's proposal, its reception, and its rejection.