"Oh, no, no!" murmured the young man, falling again into his seat.
Miss Sallianna nodded.
"Mind now—I do not assert it," she said; "I only say that these children—I mean young girls at Reddy's age—are very apt to take fancies; and then they get tired of the youths they have known well, and will hardly speak to them. Human nature is of derisive and touching interest, Mr. Verty," sighed the lady, "you must not expect to find Reddy an exception. She is not perfect."
"Oh yes, she is!" murmured poor Verty, thinking of Redbud's dreadful change, and yet battling for her to the last with the loyal extravagance of a true lover; "she would not—she could not—deceive me."
"I do not say she would."
"But—"
"I know what you are about to observe, sir; but, remember that the heart is not in our power entirely"—here Miss Sallianna sighed, and threw a languishing glance upon Verty. "No doubt Reddy loved you; indeed, at the risk of deeming to flatter you, Mr. Verty—though I never flatter—I must say, that it would have been very extraordinary if Reddy had not fallen in love with you, as you are so smart and handsome. Recollect this is not flattery. I was going on to say, that Reddy must have loved you, but that does not show that she loves you now. We cannot compress our sentiments; and Diana, Mr. Verty, the god of love, throws his darts when we are not looking—ah!"
Which last word of Miss Sallianna's speech represents a sigh she uttered, as, after the manner of Diana, she darted a fatal arrow from her eyes, at Verty. It did not slay him, however, and he only murmured wofully,
"Do you mean Reddy has changed, then, ma'am? Oh, what will become of me—what shall I do!"
Miss Sallianna threw a glance, so much more languishing than the former, upon her companion, that had his heart not been wrapped in Redbud, it certainly would have been pierced.