“I don’t understand you, Miss Osborne,” said I.
“No, you dear little thing, I believe you don’t understand me,” said Cecilia, kissing me. “What pretty hair you have, and how nice you keep it, to be sure!—so smooth and glossy! Come, had we not better be going down, do you think?”
So down we came, and found dinner ready; and I do not think I ever thought of it again till I was going to bed. Then I said to Flora,—“Do you like Cecilia Osborne?”
“I—think we had better not talk about people, Cary, if you please.”
But there was such a pause where I have drawn that long stroke, that I am sure that was not what she intended to say at first.
“Then you don’t,” said I, making a hit at the truth, and, I think, hitting it in the bull’s eye. “Well, no more do I.”
Flora looked at me, but did not speak. Oh, how different her look is from Cecilia’s sudden flashes!
“She has been trying to pump me, I am sure, about you and Angus, and Mr Keith,” said I; “and I think it is quite as well I knew so little.”
“What about?” said Flora.
“Oh, about money, mostly,” said I. “Whether Uncle had much money, and if Mr Keith was a rich man, and all on like that. I can’t bear girls who are always thinking about money.”