“No,” said Ronald. “I think it is so cramped and ugly, and all little narrow streets. But then, of course, it is such a little place. You get into the country the moment you walk anywhere.”
“It seems very big to the Bostonians,” said Sybil, laughing.
“Oh, of course. You have lived here all your life, and so it is quite different.”
“I? Dear me no! I am not a Bostonian at all.”
“Oh,” said Ronald, “I thought you were. That was the reason I was not sure of abusing the city to you. But it is not a bad place, I should think, when you know lots of people, and that was such a pretty drive we went yesterday.”
“Yes, it must seem very new to you. Everything must, I should think, most of all this casual way we have of receiving people. But there really is a Mrs. Wyndham, with whom I am staying, and she will be in before long.”
“Oh–don’t–don’t mention her,” said Ronald, hastily, “I mean it–it is of no importance whatever, you know.” He blushed violently.
Sybil laughed, and Ronald blushed again, but in all his embarrassment lie could not help thinking what a silvery ring there was in her voice.
“I am afraid Mrs. Wyndham would not like it, if she heard you telling me she was not to be mentioned, and was not of any importance whatever. But she is a very charming woman, and I am very fond of her.”
“She is your aunt, I presume, Miss Brandon?” said Ronald.