"No, he wasn't a wretch at all; he was awfully handsome, only, you know, he—was—so—awfully persevering, and kept so at my heels; but I hurried home from Brighton, and thought I had got rid of him."
"And hadn't you?"
"Oh dear, no," said Minnie, mournfully. "On the day after my arrival there came a letter; and, you know, I had to answer it; and then another; and so it went on—"
"Oh, Minnie! why didn't you tell me before?"
"How could I when you were off in that horrid Scotland? I always hated Scotland."
"You might have told papa."
"I couldn't. I think papa's cruel too. He doesn't care for me at all. Why didn't he find out our correspondence and intercept it, the way papas always do in novels? If I were his papa I'd not let him be so worried."
"And did he never call on you?"
"Yes; he got leave of absence once, and I had a dreadful time with him. He was in a desperate state of mind. He was ordered off to Gibraltar. But I managed to comfort him; and, oh dear, Kitty dear, did you ever try to comfort a man, and the man a total stranger?"
At this innocent question Mrs. Willoughby's gravity gave way a little.