‘Of course, the poor creature would do anything I told him then,’ said Celia; ‘it would be different afterwards. I dare say when we had been married a year he would try to trample on me.’
‘I can’t imagine any one trampling upon you, Celia,’ said Laura, laughing.
‘Well, I think I should make it rather difficult for him. But all men are tyrants. Look at papa, for instance; the best of men, with a heart of gold; but let the cook make a failure, and he goes on all dinner-time like the veriest heathen. Oh, they are altogether an inferior breed, believe me. There is your young man, Laura—very handsome, very gentlemanlike, but as weak as water.’
‘Whom do you mean by my young man?’ asked Laura.
‘You know, or you would not blush so violently. Of course I mean John Treverton, your future husband. And, by-the-bye, you are to be married within a year after old Mr. Treverton’s death. I hope you have begun to order your trousseau.’
‘I wish you would not talk such nonsense, Celia. You know very well that I am not engaged to Mr. Treverton. I may never be engaged to him.’
‘Then what were you two talking about that night under the chestnuts, when you lingered so far behind us?’
‘We are not engaged. That is quite enough for you to know.’
‘Then if you are not engaged you ought to be. That is all I can say. It is ridiculous to leave things to the last moment, if you are ever so sure of each other. Old Mr. Treverton died early in January, and it is now late in November. I feel quite uncomfortable about going away and leaving your affairs in such an unsatisfactory state.’
Celia, who was the most frivolous of beings, affected a talent for business, and assumed an elder sister air towards Laura Malcolm that was pleasant in its absurdity.