"Would he?" said Aldyth, doubtfully. "But surely not for Hilda. They have scarcely anything in common. I cannot understand how she can care for him."
"That is hardly a kind thing to say of your cousin, Aldyth."
"Oh, I do not mean it unkindly. I am fond of Guy," said Aldyth, innocently; "but I cannot help wishing he were rather different. I do not think he is the one for Hilda."
"How about yourself?" thought Miss Lorraine. And she sighed, feeling oppressed by a sense of coming troubles, which she had no power to avert.
Aldyth was busy arranging in a vase some flowers she had brought from Wyndham. She looked so happy as she bent over them, her long, slender fingers giving a touch to this stalk, or a pull to that leaf till she had got just the effect she desired, that Miss Lorraine shrank more than ever from the task of communicating Uncle Stephen's wish. But it had to be done.
"Aldyth," she said at last, "you will be dreadfully vexed at what I have to tell you; but it's not my fault. Your uncle has taken a strong dislike to the idea of these lectures, and he wants you to give them up."
"To give them up?" exclaimed Aldyth, flushing deeply in her surprise. "To give up the literature lectures because he dislikes them? That is most unreasonable."
"So I think," said Miss Lorraine; "but it was no use talking to uncle. He thinks the only knowledge desirable for girls is how to make puddings and keep a house in good order." And she repeated what Stephen Lorraine had said about poetry.
Aldyth was too hurt to find amusement in his words, as under other circumstances she might have done.
"And he asked you to tell me that he wishes me to give up the lectures?"