It seemed to him as, with a sad smile, he looked at her, thinking over the words that sounded so like a farewell, so light and cruel, too, that there yet was wisdom—that precocious wisdom with which nature accomplishes the weaker sex—in her decision; and something of approval lighted up his sad smile, and he said, with a little nod:
“I believe the young lady says wisely; yes, you are a wise little woman, and I submit.”
Perhaps she was a little disappointed at his ready acquiescence; at all events she wound up with a loud chord on the piano, and, standing up, said:
“Yes, it sounds foolish, and so, indeed, I think does William; and people can’t go on being children always, and talking nonsense; and you know we are no relations—at least that I know of—and I’ll call you—yes I will—Mr. Maubray. People may be just as friendly, and yet—and yet call one another by their right names. And now, Mr. Maubray, will you have some tea?”
“No, thanks; no more tea to-night. I’m sure it has lost its flavour. It would not taste like tea.”
“What’s the matter with the tea?” asked Miss Perfect, over the edge of her letter. “You don’t like your tea, William? Is not it strong enough?”
“Quite; too much; almost bitter, and a little cold.”
“Fancy, child,” said Aunt Dinah, who apprehended a new attack on her tea-chest, and hated waste. “I think it particularly good this evening,” and she sipped a little in evidence of her liking, and once more relapsed into reading.
“I can add water,” said Violet, touching the little ivory handle of the tea-urn with the tip of her finger, and not choosing to apprehend William’s allegory.
“No, thank you, Vi—Violet, I mean—Miss Darkwell; indeed, I forgot. What shall I read to-night?” and he strode listlessly to the little bookcase, whose polished surface flashed pleasantly to the flicker of the wood fire. “‘Boswell’s Johnson,’ ‘Sir Charles Grandison,’ ‘Bishop Horsley’s Sermons,’ ‘Trimmer’s Works,’ ‘A Simple Story,’ ‘Watts’ Sacred Songs,’ ‘Rasselas,’ ‘Poems, by Alfred Tennyson.’”