"I am afraid it is beyond the bud stage. Shall you forbid their corresponding?"
"Forbid? No, indeed, that would be the worst course. I shall tell Sir Mordaunt frankly that I cannot ask him to Pittsburgh, and that I do not wish him and Clare to meet for the present. In the summer I shall take the best cottage I can find at Newport, and entertain there, and have a yacht, and let my girl have a good time. It will be strange if some fine young fellow there can't make her forget this fancy—if she really has any fancy—for your nephew."
Mrs. Frampton did not think it would be at all strange, but she held her peace. She believed this to be more than a "fancy" on the girl's part. There was, however, the fact, so difficult to explain, that she still refused to bind herself by any pledge. She told Mordaunt she liked him "awfully," but—but—she was not sure of herself; and then papa would offer so many objections. In short, as his aunt knew, he had been again refused. Nevertheless, a strong impression remained on Mrs. Frampton's mind that this was by no means final; and that clever lady had now hoped, but failed, by a coup de main, to wrench from Mr. Planter some avowal of what he would do for his daughter if, as Mrs. Frampton put it to Grace, "the worst comes to the worst."
To the young man, the worst—as it seemed to him, at least—had come, when he held Clare's hand for the last time, in the garden, the morning of her departure.
"You will forget all about me, and be snapped up by some New York dude—I know you will," he said. "A whole year without seeing you! It is too awful!"
"You said something about writing to me," she observed, with a smile. "How can I possibly forget you, if I have to answer your letters? Besides, I have your photograph."
"But you wouldn't give me yours."
"Oh! American girls don't give their photographs, unless—their position is different to mine. But I shall have that stalwart form, that magnificent moustache before me, on my writing-table, to refer to, in case my memory becomes hazy. I don't see how I can forget you."
She gave a little laugh, which lacked solidity; he looked hurt.
"If you'd give me some sort of promise; if you'd hold out some sort of hope that in a year's time—"