“Oh, aunt dear, yes,” faltered the girl, with tears rising to her eyes.
“Of course you do, child. No girl could help loving my son.”
“Oh no, aunt.”
“I always meant him to marry you here, my dear; for it would be best for both of you. You have always looked upon him as to be your husband.”
“Yes, aunt dear, always.”
“Yes, and it will be best for you both,” said Mrs Glaire, repeating herself, as if she found some difficulty in what she had to say.
There was silence then for a few minutes, during which the tea-urn went on humming softly, and both women listened for the truant’s footsteps, but he did not come.
“Richard is quite a man now,” said Mrs Glaire, after clearing her throat. “Yes, aunt dear, quite.”
“Does he—does he ever talk much to you about—about love?”
“Oh no, aunt dear,” said Eve, in a surprised tone. “But he is always very, very kind to me, and of course he does love me very much. He would never think of talking about it, aunt dear; he shows it.”