She was kissed. 'Frothy gabble. I'm really near to "passion" when I embrace you. You're the only one I could run away with; live with all alone, I believe. I wonder men can see you while that silly lord of yours is absent, and not begin Morsfielding. They're virtuous if they resist. Paggy tells the world . . . well?' Aminta had reddened.
'What does my aunt tell the world?'
Mrs. Lawrence laid her smoothing hand absently on a frill of lace fichu above a sternly disciplined bosom at half-heave. 'I think I can judge now that you're not much hurt by this wretched business of the presentation. The little service I could do was a moral lesson to me on the subject of deuce-may-care antecedents. My brother Tom, too, was always playing truant, as a boy. It 's in the blood.'
She seemed to be teasing, and Aminta cried: 'My aunt! Let me hear.
She tells the world—?'
'Paggy? ah, yes. Only that she says the countess has an exalted opinion of Mr. Secretary's handwriting—as witnessed by his fair copy of the Memoirs, of course.'
'Poor woman! How can she talk such foolishness! I guessed it.'
'You wear a dark red rose when you're guessing, 'ma mie,'—French for, my
Aminta.'
'But consider, Isabella, Mr. Weyburn has just had the heaviest of losses.
My aunt should spare mention of him.'
'Matthew Weyburn! we both like the name.' Mrs. Lawrence touched at her friend and gazed. 'I've seen it on certain evenings—crimson over an olive sky. What it forebodes, I can't imagine; but it's the end of a lovely day. They say it threatens rain, if it begins one. It 's an ominous herald.'
'You make me,' said Aminta. 'I must redden if you keep looking at me so closely.'