“No?” said Mrs. Barry, turning her inquisitive glasses on his rather moody face.
After a minute’s study of its grave lines, she added:
“I can not say that I think it matters except in the case of engaged girls. Of course a betrothed lover would have a right to object, but then you know Louise is free.”
Did he fancy it, or was there really a pointed significance in her tone? He rejoined half-resentfully:
“Are you sure she is free, and that she did not leave a lover behind her in Staunton?”
She started, and looked at him keenly, then she laughed:
“Cecil, you actually frightened me for a moment; but now you make me laugh,” she said, gayly, with a laugh that would have been merry, only that it was so cracked with age. “My dear boy, there is no lover in Staunton in the case. The child never thought of a lover until she saw you. But she has offended you. I believed it all the while, now I am sure of it. You are jealous.”
“You are mistaken,” Cecil cried, furiously.
Then he shut his lips tightly. He did not like to contradict his old friend, but it was ridiculous, this fancy she entertained. Jealous! He would have to be in love first, and the idea of loving Louise Barry was—absurd.
“Yes, it is absurd! A spoiled baby in spite of her twenty-five years, with the audacious frankness of youth so freely indulged that it degenerates into lack of manners. Mrs. Barry must be losing her mind, indeed!” he exclaimed to himself, deciding that he would certainly go in the morning.