"And you're the most intelligent sort of little person I ever met. Now let me explain matters to you. Your sister is very pretty, isn't she?"
"Pretty?" said Judy meditatively—"pretty is such a common sort of word—if you call flowers pretty, Hilda is, I suppose, but she's much, much more than pretty."
"I understand. I'm quite sure I understand you perfectly. And your sister is good too, and sweet?"
"Oh, yes!" Judy's eyes filled with tears, she blinked her eyelashes and looked out of the window.
"Well, now," said Rivers, and his voice was quite tender, for Judy's manner and attitude touched him wonderfully. "Well, now, you see it was inevitable that some man should love a woman like your sister, and want to make her his wife, and wish to take her altogether to himself. It was inevitable, also, that a woman with a gentle heart like Mrs. Quentyns should love this man in return and want to devote her life to him."
"Don't!" said Judy, suddenly; "I understand you now, I don't want you to say another word." She crossed over to the window and stood there with her back to Rivers, looking gravely out.
Hilda came down in her rose-colored silk, and Rivers did not wonder that Judy thought of the flowers when she looked at her.
Hilda was unfeignedly glad to see him, and they had a pleasanter evening than any since Judy's advent in Philippa Terrace. Rivers paid a great deal of attention to the smallest and youngest member of the party, and not only completely won Hilda's heart by so doing, but induced Quentyns to look at his little sister-in-law with new eyes, and to discover for the first time, that under certain conditions that wistful little face could be both lovely and charming.
"Remember about the inevitable," said Rivers, as he bade the child good-night.
"What did Mr. Rivers mean, Judy?" said Hilda. "Oh, Judy, what flushed cheeks!—I did wrong to let you sit up, but you seemed so happy—you seemed to take such a fancy to Mr. Rivers."