“I am only eighteen months younger than you,” said I. “I do not wish to interfere, Hatty; but I do want to understand. Surely your own sister may be concerned if she see you looking ill and unhappy.”
“Do I look so, Cary?”
I thought, from the tone, that Hatty was giving way a little.
“You look both,” I said. “I wish you would come here.”
“Do you wish it, Cary?” The tone now was very unlike Hatty.
“Indeed I do, Hatty,” said I, warmly. “I don’t half believe in those people in Charles Street; and as to Amelia and Charlotte, I doubt if either of them would see anything, look how you might.”
“Oh, Charlotte is not to blame; thoughtlessness is her worst fault,” said Hatty, still playing with her fan.
“And somebody is to blame? Is it Amelia?”
“I did not say so,” was the answer.
“No,” I said, feeling disappointed; “I cannot get you to say anything. Hatty, I do wish you would trust me. Nobody here loves you except me.”