“Yes—and no!” said Felix. “I had at first, I think; but now it is six of one and half-a-dozen of the other; it is reciprocal. She affects me strongly—for she is so strong. I don’t believe you know her; it’s a beautiful nature.”
“Oh, yes, Felix; I have always thought Gertrude’s nature beautiful.”
“Well, if you think so now,” cried the young man, “wait and see! She’s a folded flower. Let me pluck her from the parent tree and you will see her expand. I’m sure you will enjoy it.”
“I don’t understand you,” murmured Charlotte. “I can’t, Felix.”
“Well, you can understand this—that I beg you to say a good word for me to your father. He regards me, I naturally believe, as a very light fellow, a Bohemian, an irregular character. Tell him I am not all this; if I ever was, I have forgotten it. I am fond of pleasure—yes; but of innocent pleasure. Pain is all one; but in pleasure, you know, there are tremendous distinctions. Say to him that Gertrude is a folded flower and that I am a serious man!”
Charlotte got up from her chair slowly rolling up her work. “We know you are very kind to everyone, Felix,” she said. “But we are extremely sorry for Mr. Brand.”
“Of course you are—you especially! Because,” added Felix hastily, “you are a woman. But I don’t pity him. It ought to be enough for any man that you take an interest in him.”
“It is not enough for Mr. Brand,” said Charlotte, simply. And she stood there a moment, as if waiting conscientiously for anything more that Felix might have to say.
“Mr. Brand is not so keen about his marriage as he was,” he presently said. “He is afraid of your sister. He begins to think she is wicked.”
Charlotte looked at him now with beautiful, appealing eyes—eyes into which he saw the tears rising. “Oh, Felix, Felix,” she cried, “what have you done to her?”