“Yes. Of course we were walking the same way. He may not really have meant to see me home.” There was a sort of innate honesty in Lily which always led her to retrieve the lapses from the strict truth when in her favor. “Maybe he didn't really mean to see me home, and sometimes he didn't offer me his arm,” she added, with a childlike wistfulness, as if she desired Maria to reassure her.
“I dare say he meant to see you home,” said Maria, rather shortly.
“I am not quite sure,” said Lily. “But he did walk home with me quite a number of times, first and last, and you know we used to go to the same school, and a number of times then, when we were a good deal younger, he really did see me home, and—he kissed me good-night then. Of course he hasn't done that lately, because we were older.”
“I should think not, unless you were engaged,” said Maria.
“Of course not, but he has said several things to me. Maybe he didn't mean anything, but they sounded—I thought I would like to tell you, Maria. I have never told anybody, not even mother. Once he said my name just suited me, and once he asked me if I thought married people were happier, and once he said he thought it was a doubtful experiment for a man to marry and try to live either with his wife's mother or his own. You know, if he married me, it would have to be one way or the other. Do you think he meant anything, Maria?”
“I don't know,” said Maria. “I didn't hear him.”
“Well, I thought he spoke as if he meant it, but, of course, a girl can never be sure. I suppose men do say so many things they don't mean. Don't you?”
“Yes, I suppose they do.”
“Do you think he did, Maria?” asked Lily, piteously.
“My dear child, I told you I didn't hear him, and I don't see how I can tell,” repeated Maria, with a little impatience. It did seem hard to her that she should be so forced into a confidence of this kind, but an odd feeling of protective tenderness for Lily was stealing over her. She reached a certain height of nobility which she had never reached before, through this feeling.