“It ought not to be, when you are engaged to be married,” said Emma interrogatively.
“Even engagements have their drawbacks, as no doubt you will discover one day,” she answered, with a little shrug of her shoulders. “Edward is the best and dearest of men, but he can be a wee bit trying at times: he is too affectionate and careful of me, if that is possible, for you know I am an independent person and do not like to have some one always running after me like a nurse with a child.”
“Perhaps he will give up that when you are married,” said Emma doubtfully. Somehow she could not picture her handsome and formidable friend—for at times the gentle Emma admitted to herself that she was rather formidable— as the constant object and recipient of petits soins and sweet murmured nothings.
“Possibly he will,” answered Ellen decisively. “By the way, I just called in to see Henry, whom I found in a state of great delight with the note and roses which you sent him. He asked me to give you his kindest regards, and to say that he was much touched by your thought of him.”
“They were lilies, not roses,” answered Emma, looking down.
“I meant lilies,—did I say roses?” said Ellen innocently. “And, talking of lilies, you look a little pale, dear.”
“I am always pale, Ellen; and, like you, I have been a good deal worried lately.”
“Worried! Who can worry you in this Garden of Eden?”
“Nobody. It is—my own thoughts. I dare say that even Eve felt worried in her garden after she had eaten that apple, you know.”
Ellen shook her head. “I am not clever, like you,” she said, smiling, “and I don’t understand parables. If you want my advice you must come down to my level and speak plainly.”