Leigh looked at his sister in anger and disgust.
“If I can read a woman’s countenance,” he said, mockingly, “you were gratified by every word he said to me.”
“I don’t know—I can’t tell how it was,” she faltered with her pale cheeks beginning to flame again, “but I’m afraid I was pleased, dear.”
“I thought so,” he cried, mockingly.
“I couldn’t help liking the manly, brave way in which he spoke up. It sounded so true.”
“Yes, very. Brave words such as he has said in a dozen silly girls’ ears. And he told you before I came that he loved you?”
“Yes, dear.”
“And you told him that his ardent passion was returned,” he sneered.
“I did not. I could have told him I hated him, but I could not help feeling sorry, for I have behaved very badly, flirting with him as I did.”
“And pity is near akin to love, Jenny,” cried Leigh, with a harsh laugh, “and very soon I may have the opportunity of welcoming this uncouth oaf for a brother-in-law, I suppose. Oh, what weak, pitiful creatures women are! People cannot write worse of them than they prove.”