“And pray what did you think would become of me?”
“I don’t know. I thought you would melt away.”
“That’s a compliment to my solidity! I melt very often,” said Felix, “but there is always something left of me.”
“I came and waited for you by the door, because the others did,” Gertrude went on. “But if you had never appeared I should not have been surprised.”
“I hope,” declared Felix, looking at her, “that you would have been disappointed.”
She looked at him a little, and shook her head. “No—no!”
“Ah, par exemple!” cried the young man. “You deserve that I should never leave you.”
Going into the parlor they found Mr. Wentworth performing introductions. A young man was standing before the Baroness, blushing a good deal, laughing a little, and shifting his weight from one foot to the other—a slim, mild-faced young man, with neatly-arranged features, like those of Mr. Wentworth. Two other gentlemen, behind him, had risen from their seats, and a little apart, near one of the windows, stood a remarkably pretty young girl. The young girl was knitting a stocking; but, while her fingers quickly moved, she looked with wide, brilliant eyes at the Baroness.
“And what is your son’s name?” said Eugenia, smiling at the young man.
“My name is Clifford Wentworth, ma’am,” he said in a tremulous voice.