“What is the use of liking a lady who won’t like me? You have probably discovered by this time that my Lady Aunt detests me.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s as bad as that,” said Emily. “She must have some good opinions about you—she says you’re the only Priest who will ever go to heaven.”
“She doesn’t mean that as a compliment, whatever you in your innocence believe it to be. And you are Douglas Starr’s daughter? I knew your father. We were boys together at Queen’s Academy—we drifted apart after we left it—he went into journalism, I to McGill. But he was the only friend I had at school—the only boy who would bother himself about Jarback Priest, who was lame and hunchbacked and couldn’t play football or hockey. Emily Byrd Starr—Starr should be your first name. You look like a star—you have a radiant sort of personality shining through you—your proper habitat should be the evening sky just after sunset—or the morning sky just before sunrise. Yes. You’d be more at home in the morning sky. I think I shall call you Star.”
“Do you mean that you think me pretty?” asked Emily directly.
“Why, it hadn’t occurred to me to wonder whether you were pretty or not. Do you think a star should be pretty?”
Emily reflected.
“No,” she said finally, “the word doesn’t suit a star.”
“I perceive you are an artist in words. Of course it doesn’t. Stars are prismatic—palpitating—elusive. It is not often we find one made flesh and blood. I think I’ll wait for you.”
“Oh, I’m ready to go now,” said Emily, standing up.