And a minute’s silence ensued.
There was a lurking smile on Cecil’s faultless face, and he thought within himself:
“She may be old enough, but she is certainly not wise enough. I would as soon think of marrying a baby.”
But feeling himself snubbed, he did not voice these sentiments aloud. He said, simply:
“I forgot her age. She seems so very young—as young as my school-girl sisters.”
“She lacks training. Her aunt Lucy has spoiled her, that is why she seems so childish,” she replied, apologetically.
“So I thought. That is why I suggested a little more polish, such as can only be acquired in a first-class school,” he replied. “But, dear Mrs. Barry, please do not think me meddlesome. It was a hasty thought spoken out too freely.”
“My dear Cecil! I am sure I thank you for expressing such an interest in Louise. It is very flattering to her, coming from you,” Mrs. Barry said, pointedly, and then she took the young man into her confidence and told him of her wish to keep her niece at Ferndale, and so separate her from her objectionable step-sister, “that theater child.”
Cecil Laurens applauded her resolve warmly, although he felt somewhat like a traitor to the girl who had so frankly confided to him her honest dislike of Ferndale.
“Next week I shall take her to the White Sulphur Springs,” she said. “I mean to give her such a round of gayety that she will not longer regret her humdrum home in Staunton.”