“Well, I suppose it is,” said I; “I am not quite seventeen yet.”
“You dear little thing!” said Cecilia, imprisoning my hand. “What is Miss Drummond’s father?”
“A minister,” said I.
“A Scotch Presbyterian, I suppose?” she said, turning up her nose. I did not think she looked any prettier for it.
“Well,” said I, “I suppose he is.”
“And Mr Angus—what do they mean to make of him, do you know?”
“Flora hopes he will be a minister too. His father wishes it; but she is not sure that Angus likes the notion himself.”
“Dear me! I should think not,” said Cecilia, “He is fit for something far better.”
“What can be better?” I answered.
“You have such charming ideas!” replied Cecilia. She put in another word, which I never heard before, and I don’t know what it means. She brought it with her from the South, I suppose. Unso—unsophy—no, unsophisticated—I think that was it. It sounded uncommon long and fine, I know.