"Except Allan Carew."
"He has not made much difference. He comes and goes as he likes—especially when Suzette is here. I sit at my organ or piano and let them wander about and amuse themselves."
"What an indulgent chaperon!"
"I knew what the end must be, Geoffrey. I knew from the first that they were in love with each other. At least I knew from the very first that he was in love with her."
"You were not so sure about the lady?"
"A girl is too shy to let her feelings be read easily; but I could see she liked his society. They used to roam about the garden together like children. They were too happy not to be in love."
"Does being in love mean happiness, mother? Don't you think there is a middle state between indifference and passion—a cordial, comfortable, sympathetic friendship which is far happier than love? It has no cold fits of doubt, no hot fits of jealousy. From your account of these young people, I question if they were ever really in love. Your Carew looks essentially commonplace. I don't give him credit for much imagination."
"You will understand him better by-and-by, dearest."
The mother was looking up at the newly regained son, admiring him, and beginning to fancy that she had done him an injustice in thinking that Allan resembled him. He was much handsomer than Allan, and there was something picturesque and romantic in his countenance and bearing which appealed to a woman's fancy; a look as of the Lovelaces and Dorsets of old, the courtiers and soldiers who could write a love-song on the eve of a bloody battle, or dance a minuet at midnight, and fight a duel at dawn. His manner to his mother was playful and protecting. He had not the air of thinking her the wisest of women, but no one could doubt that he loved her.
The summer-house was empty when they went back to it, and there was a pencilled note on the marble table addressed to Mrs. Wornock.