Gerty was petite, blonde, bewitching—so many a young man said, and many a rough old squire as well. She was no baby in face, however. Although of the purest type of Saxon beauty—without the square chin that so disfigures many an otherwise lovely English face—there was fire and character in every lineament of Gerty Keane’s countenance.
She answered Flora calmly, candidly, quietly—I am almost inclined to say, in a business way that reminded one of her father.
“Dear Flo,” she said—and her eyes as she spoke had a sad and far-away look in them—“it would be unmaidenly in me to say how much I should like to be your sister in reality. It may not be strange for me to think of Jack; we have liked each other, almost loved each other, since childhood.”
“Almost?” said Flora.
“Listen, Flo. I may love Jack, but there is one other I love even more.”
“Sir Digby, Gerty?”
“No, dear Flo, but my father. I love him more because he has few friends, and because others do not love him. I would do anything for father.”
“You would even marry Sir Digby?”
“Perhaps.”
“O Gerty! poor Jack will break his heart.”