“I do—I do!”
The answer was given with an eagerness, that left Lora no wish to withhold her explanation.
“Marion,” said she, placing her lips close to the ear of her who was alone intended to hear it, “you are in love?”
“Nonsense, Lora. What puts such a thought into your silly little head?”
“No nonsense, Marion; I know it by your looks. I don’t know who has won you, dear cousin. I only know he’s not here to-day. You’ve been expecting him. He hasn’t come. Now!”
“You’re either a great big deceiver, or a great little conjuror, Lora. In which of these categories am I to class you?”
“Not in the former, Marion; you know it. Oh! it needs no conjuring for me to tell that. But pray don’t let it be so easy for others to read your secret, cousin! I entreat you—.”
“You are welcome to your suspicions,” said Marion, interrupting her. “And now I shall relieve you from them, by making them a certainty. It is of no use trying any longer to keep that a secret, which in time you would be sure to discover for yourself—I suppose. I am in love. As you’ve said, I’m in love with one who is not here. Why should I feel ashamed to tell it you? Nay, if I only thought he loved me as I do him, I’d care little that the whole company knew it—and much less either Winifred Wayland, or Dorothy Dayrell. Let them—”
Just then the voice of this last-mentioned personage was heard in animated conversation—interspersed with peals of laughter, in which a large party was joining.
It was nothing new for Dorothy to be the centre of a circle of laughing listeners: for she was one of the wits of the time. Her talk might not have terminated the dialogue between the cousins, but for the mention of a name—to Marion Wade of all-absorbing interest.