“You dear little thing,” said Agnes, suddenly putting her arm about Lucia and pressing her closely as a mother might seize a baby, “what we were talking of was you. Can’t you understand, now, why I enjoyed it so much?”
There was a tremor and a convulsive movement within the older woman’s arm, and Lucia seemed to be crying.
“Darling little girl,” murmured Agnes, kissing the top of Lucia’s head; “I ought to be killed for teasing you, even for a moment, but how could you be jealous of me? Your lover has been a great deal more appreciative: he has done me the honor to make me his confidante, and again I say it was delightful.”
“I’m awfully mean,” sobbed Lucia.
“Stop crying—at once,” whispered Agnes. “How will your eyes look? Oh, Lu, what a lucky girl you are!”
“For crying?” said Lucia, after a little choke.
“For having such a man to adore you. Why, he thinks no such woman ever walked the earth before. He worships the floor you tread, the air you breathe, the rustle of your dress, the bend of your little finger, the——”
The list of adorable qualities might have been prolonged had not a little arm suddenly encircled Miss Dinon’s waist so tightly that further utterance was suspended. Then Lucia murmured,—
“The silly fellow! I’m not half good enough for him.”
“Do you really think so?”