It did not leave her all the evening. She watched the pretty, gentle Amy, flitting about among her father’s guests, with a feeling which, but for the guileless sweetness of the girl’s face, the innocent unconsciousness of every look and movement, might have grown to bitterness at last. She watched her ways and words with Mr Millar, wishing, in her look or manner, to see some demand for his admiration and attention, that might excuse the wandering of his fancy from Rose. But she watched in vain. Amy was sweet and modest with him as with others, more friendly and unreserved than with most, perhaps, but sweet and modest, and unconscious, still.
“She is very like Lily Elphinstone, is she not?” said her brother Harry in her ear.
She started at his voice; but she did not turn toward him, or remove her eyes from the young girl’s face.
“She is very like Lily—in all things,” said Graeme; and to herself she added, “and she will steal the treasure from my darling’s life, as Lily stole it from mine—innocently and unconsciously, but inevitably still—and from Harry’s, too, it may be.”
And, with a new pang, she turned to look at her brother’s face; but Harry was no longer at her side. Mr Millar was there, and his eyes had been following hers, as Harry’s had been.
“She is very sweet and lovely—very like Lily, is she not?” he whispered.
“Very like her,” repeated Graeme, her eyes closing with a momentary feeling of sickness.
“You are very tired of all this, I am afraid,” said he.
“Very tired! If Harry only would take me home!”
“Shall I take you home? At least, let me take you out of the crowd. Have you seen the new picture they are all talking about? Shall I take you up-stairs for a little while.”