“But you will some day,” cried Isabel passionately, and with the tears of vexation in her eyes. “She is all that is amiable, and good, and ladylike.”
“Ladylike, child!”
“Yes, Aunt. If she were not, I’m sure poor dear Neil would not have cared for her as he does.”
“Ah, well,” said Aunt Anne, preening herself like a plump bird, “we shall see, I dare say. I will not call her an artful woman, but mark my words, Isabel, she will not rest till she has deluded one of your poor brothers into marrying her.”
“Aunt! And she avoids them, and is as distant as possible to poor Neil.”
“All feminine cunning, child. Oh, Isabel, I wish you would not be such a baby! Can you not see that it is to lead him on, while she is playing off one brother against the other?”
“I will not argue with you, Aunt,” said the girl indignantly.
“No, my dear, I beg you will not. Wait and see, and then come to me humbly, and own how wrong you have been.”
Isabel was silent, and Aunt Anne went leisurely on with some fancywork of a very useless type, till an idea occurred to her, and she looked up.
“Isabel, my dear, what wine was that Sir Cheltnam praised so, last time he dined here?”