“My dear cousin,” said Felix, “it’s nothing that a young lady may not listen to. At least I suppose it isn’t. But voyons; you shall judge. I am terribly in love.”
“Well, Felix,” began Miss Wentworth, gravely. But her very gravity appeared to check the development of her phrase.
“I am in love with your sister; but in love, Charlotte—in love!” the young man pursued. Charlotte had laid her work in her lap; her hands were tightly folded on top of it; she was staring at the carpet. “In short, I’m in love, dear lady,” said Felix. “Now I want you to help me.”
“To help you?” asked Charlotte, with a tremor.
“I don’t mean with Gertrude; she and I have a perfect understanding; and oh, how well she understands one! I mean with your father and with the world in general, including Mr. Brand.”
“Poor Mr. Brand!” said Charlotte, slowly, but with a simplicity which made it evident to Felix that the young minister had not repeated to Miss Wentworth the talk that had lately occurred between them.
“Ah, now, don’t say ‘poor’ Mr. Brand! I don’t pity Mr. Brand at all. But I pity your father a little, and I don’t want to displease him. Therefore, you see, I want you to plead for me. You don’t think me very shabby, eh?”
“Shabby?” exclaimed Charlotte softly, for whom Felix represented the most polished and iridescent qualities of mankind.
“I don’t mean in my appearance,” rejoined Felix, laughing; for Charlotte was looking at his boots. “I mean in my conduct. You don’t think it’s an abuse of hospitality?”
“To—to care for Gertrude?” asked Charlotte.