“Stop! cried his sister, glancing about in horror. The admiring lieutenant met her eye. Blandishingly she smiled on him: “Most beautiful weather for a welcome to dear England?” and passed with majesty.
“Boy!” she resumed, “are you mad?”
“I hate being such a hypocrite, madam.”
“Then you do not love her, Evan?”
This may have been dubious logic, but it resulted from a clear sequence of ideas in the lady’s head. Evan did not contest it.
“And assuredly you will lose her, Evan. Think of my troubles! I have to intrigue for Silva; I look to your future; I smile, Oh heaven! how do I not smile when things are spoken that pierce my heart! This morning at the breakfast!”
Evan took her hand, and patted it.
“What is your pity?” she sighed.
“If it had not been for you, my dear sister, I should never have held my tongue.”
“You are not a Harrington! You are a Dawley!” she exclaimed, indignantly.