“Because they are not quite like him. I love some of them better than I do him, and he might think that ungrateful.”
How naturally love inspires the idea of jealousy, thought Mrs. Ormond. “My dear,” said she, “you carry your ideas of delicacy and gratitude to an extreme; but it is very natural you should: however, you need not be afraid; Mr. Hervey cannot be jealous of those charming heroes, that never existed, though they are not quite like him.”
“I am very glad that he would not think me ungrateful—but if he knew that I dream of them sometimes?”
“He would think you dreamed, as all people do, of what they think of in the daytime.”
“And he would not be angry? I am very glad of it. But I once saw a picture—”
“I know you did—well,” said Mrs. Ormond, “and your grandmother was frightened because it was the picture of a man—hey? If she was not your grandmother, I should say that she was a simpleton. I assure you, Mr. Hervey is not like her, if that is what you mean to ask. He would not be angry at your having seen fifty pictures.”
“I am glad of it—but I see it very often in my dreams.”
“Well, if you had seen more pictures, you would not see this so often. It was the first you ever saw, and very naturally you remember it, Mr. Hervey would not be angry at that,” said Mrs. Ormond, laughing.
“But sometimes, in my dreams, it speaks to me.”
“And what does it say?”