“How could I know, auntie?”
“I think, William Maubray, you are a little disagreeable to-night.”
William, at these words, recollected that there was truth in the reproof. His mood was disagreeable to himself, and, therefore, to others.
“My dear auntie, I’m very sorry. I’m sure I have been—not a little, but very—and I beg your pardon. What was it? Yes—about Violet. He did, a great deal. In fact he talked about her till he quite tired me.”
“He admires her, evidently. Did he talk of her good looks? She is, you know, extremely pretty,” said Aunt Dinah.
“Yes, he thinks her very pretty. She is very pretty. In fact, I don’t think—judging by the women who come to church—there is a good-looking girl, except herself, in this part of the world; and she would be considered pretty anywhere—very pretty.”
“Revington is a very nice place, and the Trevors a good old family. The connection would be a very desirable one: and I—though, of course, not knowing, in the least, whether the young man had any serious intentions—I never alluded to the possibility to Vi herself. Yet, I do think she likes him.”
“I should not wonder,” said William.
“And he talked pretty frankly?” continued Aunt Dinah.
“I suppose so. He did not seem to have anything to conceal; and he always talks a great deal, an enormous quantity;” and William yawned, as it seemed, over the recollection.