“I am,” she said; and the great tears started into her eyes.
The handsome old face was drawn into lines of disappointment.
He stooped down and kissed her with something of the old boyish love so long repressed under the bitter consciousness that she blamed him for Camille’s sorrow.
“Dear mother, you must not be disappointed,” he said, tenderly. “You have set your heart on this girl, I see. Then why not undertake a mission to Virginia? I flatter myself that no one could resist my mother.”
“Do you mean it, Norman? Would you like for me to go?” she cried, in real excitement; and he saw how much her heart was set on having the girl at Verelands.
“Yes, I mean it, mother. I would go myself, but I am not sure I would succeed. With you it would be different. She would fall in love with you.”
“And why not with you?” she said, brightly. Then the color flew to her cheek. “Oh, Norman, I didn’t mean that way!” she said, vaguely. “But she couldn’t help liking you on sight—as a dear older brother, of course.”
“‘Of course,’” he echoed, smiling at her confusion. “Let me see, mother—how old am I? Thirty-five? I feel fifty; and Thea West is about seventeen—almost young enough for my daughter.” He flushed as a certain bitter memory rose in his mind, but added, lightly: “I hope the inveterate little coquette will have more respect for my gray hairs than to try her arts on me.”
“There is not a gray hair in your head!” Mrs. de Vere cried, indignantly, as she ran her fingers through the clustering dark curls. “But I dare say the child is not half the coquette they pretend,” she added, for her kind heart went out more and more to the absent, friendless girl.
She paid no attention to Norman’s careless banter. He was too old and saddened and busy, and Thea West too young and giddy for the two to have anything in common with each other.