"Oh, how dear of you to say so!" I exclaimed.
"You don't think I must be bad, then, because of my coloring?"
"What a ridiculous idea, you sweet child!" she laughed. "Who has told you that!"
"Oh, Mrs. Carruthers always said so—and—and the old gentlemen, and—even Mr. Carruthers hinted I probably had some odd qualities. But you do think I shall be able to be fairly good—don't you?"
She was amused, I could see, but I was serious.
"I think you probably might have been a little wicked if you had married a man like Mr. Carruthers," she said, smiling, "but with Robert I am sure you will be good. He will never leave you a moment, and he will love you so much you won't have time for anything else."
"Oh, that is what I shall like—being loved," I said.
"I think all women like that," she sighed. "We could all of us be good if the person we love went on being demonstrative. It is the cold, matter-of-fact devotion that kills love, and makes one want to look elsewhere to find it again."
Then we talked of possibilities about the duke. I told her I knew his toquade, and she, of course, was fully acquainted with mamma's history.
"I must tell you, dear, I fear he will be difficult," she said. "He is a strangely prejudiced person, and obstinate to a degree, and he worships Robert, as we all do."