‘And pray what right have you to my advice? Why should I interfere between you and your sister? I might tell you it is a just retribution on you for having alienated yourself systematically from all such ties. You demand my advice as if you were a highwayman requiring my watch and purse.’
Otho fidgeted and fumbled, h’mmed and ha’d.
‘I beg your pardon, Magdalen. I thought I had the right—of having asked before, and received—advice, you know. And you know I always do come to you when I am in trouble.’
‘Oh yes; I know you do.’
‘Would you please tell me what I had better do?’
‘Is she good-looking?’ asked Magdalen.
‘Oh no!’ said Otho, promptly. ‘She has red hair and freckles.’
Magdalen glanced at Otho’s own dark traits, and said, ‘Now, Otho!’
‘Upon my soul and honour she has; and one of those faces that flush up all over, without a minute’s warning. I never could see the sense of those faces. She goes into raptures, you know, and cries and laughs about things—at least, she did when I saw her. In fact, though she’s been at college somewhere, and is a complete blue—reads Homer, and all such bosh—I thought her a regular baby. She’s got rather a dashing figure,’ he added, musingly, ‘but I swear to you, Magdalen, she is not good-looking.’
‘But why, then, does this clergyman want to marry her? A man of wealth, family, and position? I know quite well who he is. They are very first-rate people down there.’