“Oh, aunt, you are not angry, are you? He’s very, very nice, I’m sure—and rich, too! He said my every fancy should be gratified—that he would worship me. You will give your consent, won’t you, because he’s coming here to-morrow morning to ask you.”
Mrs. Flint found her voice, and muttered, sarcastically:
“A wonder he didn’t ask me to-night! Why didn’t you tell him you would have to get your father’s consent?”
“Because papa has deserted me ever since I was small, and cares nothing for me. It is you I’ve had to look for the care of father and mother both. Why, look you, papa has never written me a line all these years! He does not care what becomes of me. And we shall not ask him anything. You are my guardian, and will give us leave to marry, won’t you, dear?”
“When, Cinthy?”
“Oh, very soon, he said—not later than Christmas, anyway. We don’t want to wait long. You’ll be willing, won’t you?” impetuously.
“I don’t know, dear. I’ll have to sleep on it before I make up my mind; you’ve given me such a surprise. Though I don’t say but that it’s a grand match for a girl like you, Cinthy.”
“He said I was made for a prince.”
“Of course. People in love are silly enough to say anything. But take your candle and go to bed now, Cinthy, and we will talk about this again to-morrow.”
“Good-night, aunt,” and she lingered, perhaps hoping for a kindlier word.