“Of course you do, and of course I grant it, which will not prevent your offending in the same way the very next minute.”
“Cease, chatterbox!” exclaimed Clare Hartley. “Remember that Miss Helmstedt has other subjects to occupy her mind to the exclusion of your mature ideas. She is engaged, you know. Her affianced is far away. Like that other ‘Margaret, who in Lithgow’s bower, all lonely sat and wept the weary hour,’ she may be thinking of:—
“‘The war against her native soil
Her lover’s risk in battle broil.’
“Though after all, since they seem to be so quiet up there, I shouldn’t wonder if she is only thinking of household linens, with a view to housekeeping. Let the ‘plenishing’ be on the most liberal scale, Margaret, for I and Grace intend to spend a great deal of time with you after you are married.”
“And we are to be your bridesmaids, of course, are we not, dear Margaret?”
“Dear Grace, pray do not speak of any future event with such presumptuous assurance. My marriage may never take place,” replied Margaret, with a mournful earnestness that she did not attempt to conceal or modify.
“Your marriage may never take place!” exclaimed both her companions, in consternation.
“I mean that life is full of vicissitudes; one or the other of us may die.”
“How gravely you speak! You are certainly the daughter of Heraclitus, the crying philosopher. Why, Margaret——”