A few days after this, Eva was pleased to inform Beatrice that she had been so happy as to reach that point which in her eyes was the apex of feminine ambition.
“I am betrothed to Sir William de Cantilupe.”
Margaret sighed.
“Dost thou like him?” asked Beatrice, in her straightforward way, which was sometimes a shade too blunt, and was apt to betray her into asking direct questions which it might have been kinder and more delicate to leave unasked.
Eva blushed and simpered.
“I’ll tell thee, Beatrice,” said little Marie, dancing up. “She’s over head and ears in love—so much over head,”—and Marie’s hand went as high as it would go above her own: “but it’s my belief she has tumbled in on the wrong side.”
“‘The wrong side’!” answered Beatrice, laughing. “The wrong side of love? or the wrong side of Eva?”
“The wrong side of Eva,” responded Marie, with a positive little nod. “As to love, I’m not quite sure that she knows much about it: for I don’t believe she cares half so much for Sir William as she cares for being married. That’s the grand thing with her, so far as I can make out. And that’s not my notion of love.”
“Thou silly little child of twelve, what dost thou know about it?” contemptuously demanded Eva. “Thy time is not come.”
“No, and I hope it won’t,” said Marie, “if I’m to make such a goose of myself over it as thou dost.”