“Aye, aye,” said Laurentia, “I know all about it. I once was young myself. Oh,” continued the pleasure-loving woman, her voice falling at the remembrance of that youth from which she was so loth to part. “Oh, when I was nineteen, I was exactly what Anna is now—I was, as she is now, a budding beauty, I had just as fresh and youthful feelings—I was just as child-like and playful as she is.”
Van Nerekool shuddered at this comparison of the daughter with the mother.
“I was just as kind-hearted, just as lovable as she is. Oh believe me,” continued she, excitedly, while she allowed her hand to lean on his arm more heavily perhaps than was needful, and gave that arm a gentle pressure. “Believe me, one need not have a very lively imagination to see that Anna will be precisely like me.”
For a moment she paused, as if she began to see that she was being carried away by her subject.
“No doubt, madam,” replied van Nerekool, gallantly, as he allowed his eye to wander from the face of his fair companion to her shoulders, to her bosom, to her feet. “No doubt, one may safely predict that Miss Anna will, in charms and perfections, nearly come up to her mother.”
“Pray, Mr. van Nerekool, no compliments,” said Laurentia, with an affected smile.
“But may I beg of you,” continued he, “to let me know for what purpose you drew the parallel? I do not quite see—”
Laurentia shook the wealth of curls which covered her neck and descended to her shoulders. No, the simpleton whose arm she held, did not understand her. That was plain enough. One thought of MʻBok Kârijâh swiftly passed through her brain, and drew a sigh from her.
“Oh,” she continued, while her bosom rose and fell quickly as she drew breath more rapidly, “I merely meant to state that I was young once—”
“And you are young still,” cried van Nerekool, politely.