"Myself."
"And have you told him of your choice?" asked the other, laughing.
"Not with my tongue: but with my eyes, a thousand times—and with all that unspeakable language that female invention can supply:—I go where he goes—if I see him in the street behind me, I move slowly and with dignity; still he passes me—if before me, I am in a hurry—but—"
"You pass him?" interrupted Charlotte, amused with her companion's humour.
"Exactly—we never keep an equal pace; this is the first time that he has walked with me since he returned from abroad—and for this honour I am clearly indebted to yourself."
"To me, Maria?" said Charlotte, in surprise.
"To none other—he talked to me, but he looked at you. Ah! he knows by instinct that you are an only child—and I do believe that the wretch knows that I have twelve brothers and sisters—but you had better take him, Charlotte; he is worth twenty George Mortons—at least, in money."
"What have the merits of George Morton and Mr. Delafield to do with each other?" said Charlotte, removing her hat, and exhibiting a head of hair that opportunely fell in rich profusion over her shoulders, so as to conceal the unusual flush on her, ordinarily, pale cheek.
This concluded the conversation; for Charlotte instantly left the room, and was occupied for some time in giving such orders as her office of assistant in housekeeping to her mother rendered necessary.
Charlotte Henly was the only child that had been left from six who were born to her parents, the others having died in their infancy. The deaths of the rest of their children had occasioned the affection of her parents to center in the last of their offspring with more than common warmth; and the tenderness of their love was heightened by the extraordinary qualities of their child. Possessed of an abundance of the goods of this world, these doating parents were looking around with intense anxiety, among their acquaintance, and watching for the choice that was to determine the worldly happiness of their daughter.