“Essex!” She slowly crimsoned, and Mrs. Willers kept her pitiless eyes on the rising flood of color.
“Oh, my dear girl,” she said almost in an agony, “don’t say you’ve got fond of him.”
“I don’t like Mr. Essex. I—I—can’t bear him.”
Mrs. Willers knew enough of human nature not to be at all convinced by this remark.
“He’s not the man for any woman to give her heart to. He’s not the man to take seriously. He’s never loved anything in his life but himself. Don’t let yourself be fooled by him. He’s handsome, and he’s about the smoothest talker I ever ran up against. But don’t you be crazy enough to fall in love with him.”
“I tell you, I don’t like him.”
“My goodness, I wish there was somebody in this world to take care of you. You’ve got no sense, and you’re so unfortunately good-looking. Some day you’ll be fooled just as I was with Willers. Are you telling the truth? It isn’t Essex that’s made you change your mind?”
These repeated accusations exasperated Mariposa.
“No, it is not,” she said angrily; and then, in the heat of her annoyance, “if anything would make me accept Mrs. Shackleton’s offer it would be the hope of getting away from that man.”
There was no doubt she was speaking the truth now. Mrs. Willers’ point of view of the situation underwent a kaleidoscopic upsetting.