"All my life, I hope,"—she said with a little smile—"It is my own home, you know."
"Oh yes!—I know!—but—" he hesitated for a moment; "But your aunt- —"
"Aunt Emily and I don't quite agree,"—said Maryllia, quietly—"She has been very kind to me in the past,—but since Uncle Fred's death, things have not been just as pleasant. You see, I speak frankly. Besides I'm getting on towards thirty,—it's time I lived my own life, and tried to do something useful."
Charlemont laughed.
"You look more like eighteen than thirty,"—he said—"Why give yourself away?"
"Is that giving myself away?" and she raised her eyebrows quizzically—"I'm not thirty yet—I'm twenty-seven,—but that's old enough to begin to take things seriously. I've made up my mind to live here at Abbot's Manor and do all I can for the tenantry and the village generally—I'm sure I shall be perfectly happy." "How about getting married?" he queried.
Her blue eyes darkened with a shade of offence.
"The old story!" she said—"Men always think a woman must be married to be happy. It doesn't at all follow. I know heaps and heaps of married women, and they are in anything but an enviable state. I would not change with one of them!"
"Would you like to be another Miss Fosby?" he suggested in a mirthful undertone.
She smiled.