There is so much force, so much girlish venom, in her tone, that Wyndham feels inclined to laugh; but the little air mutin she has taken sits so curiously, and with such an unexpected charm, upon her, that somehow his laughter dies within him. Something about her now, too, as she stands there flushed and defiant, strikes him as familiar. Who is she like?
‘For a young lady so very valiant, I wonder you are so afraid to face the world,’ says he gravely.
‘Ah, I am not afraid of the world, but of him!’ says she. ‘And’—she draws closer to him, and now all her bravery has died away from her, and she looks as greatly in want of courage as a mouse—‘I’m afraid of this new lady, too! Is she—kind—nice? will she—be angry with me sometimes?’
‘Very likely,’ says Wyndham. He softens this disagreeable answer, however, by a smile. ‘No—you must not be afraid of her. She is an old friend of mine, and very charming. And she is quite prepared to love you.’
‘Ah! Then you have said—’
‘The very prettiest things of you, of course’—sardonically—‘so keep up your courage.’
‘She will come?’—nervously.
‘On Thursday.’
‘And you?’
‘When you and she have reached the point of open war, I dare say she will drop me a line, to come to her rescue.’