“Not exactly—not spoken—hinted only—that is, blindly—not so as to be understood, perhaps.”
“He will never consent, boys!” and this was uttered with something very like an air of triumph.
“We have no intention of asking it of him, Grace. Rupert and I intend to be off next week, without saying a word to Mr. Hardinge on the subject.”
Another long, eloquent silence succeeded, during which I saw Lucy bury her face in her apron, while the tears openly ran down my sister's cheek.
“You do not—cannot mean to do anything so cruel, Miles!” Grace at length said.
“It is exactly because it will not be cruel, that we intend to do it,”—here I nudged Rupert with my elbow, as a hint that I wanted assistance; but he made no other reply than an answering nudge, which I interpreted into as much as if he had said in terms, “You've got into the scrape in your own way, and you may get out of it in the same manner.” “Yes,” I continued, finding succour hopeless, “yes, that's just it.”
“What is just it, Miles? You speak in a way to show that you are not satisfied with yourself—neither you nor Rupert is satisfied with himself, if the truth were known.”
“I not satisfied with myself! Rupert not satisfied with himself! You never were more mistaken in your life, Grace. If there ever were two boys in New York State that were well satisfied with themselves, they are just Rupert and I.”
Here Lucy raised her face from the apron and burst into a laugh, the tears filling her eyes all the while.
“Believe them, dear Grace,” she said. “They are precisely two self-satisfied, silly fellows, that have got some ridiculous notions in their heads, and then begin to talk about 'superficial views of duties,' and all such nonsense. My father will set it all right, and the boys will have had their talk.”