“Of course you will not consider him,” she said, much more confused than was the heroine of the hour.
“I was thinking a little of getting married in Italy in the fall,” answered Miss Mordaunt, pensively. “A wedding would be so sweet in that lovely old Duomo at Florence. And I couldn’t have it in the Duomo unless I married a Catholic, I suppose.”
“Cecily!”
“Gwen, dear, you can’t do it. You haven’t the cut of a chaperon’s jib. Why, San Miniato took us first for a pair of schoolgirls, and Mimms for our governess. You’re a failure, and I’m a terror; but we have had a good time, haven’t we?”
“Cecily, your father—I have an idea he would dislike this more than anything you could do. Don’t, don’t answer Miniato now. Let me tell him to go to America and see your papa. That is the only decent thing to do.”
“The others—all but one—asked me first,” said Cecily, dimpling. “But it’s a shame to tease you, poor, dear little soul. Send Miniato packing, if you like. I don’t generally—right away. I keep them on as friends, like poor Mr. Lenvale, till I can’t stand them a minute longer. Anyhow, old Miniato’s a goose to think I’d marry out of my own country and live away from papa.”
Gwendolyn had the tact to say nothing. In a moment Cecily began again.
“You’ve been so awfully good to me, Gwenny. If I had had a mother, I’d have wanted her to be like you. But my mother died when I was born, and I had no one but an aunt and grandmother, who—papa, couldn’t get along with them, and I don’t blame him. He has been awfully generous—but kept away. You know he has made money himself, but he inherited a lot from his mother’s brother on condition he’d change his name. The Mordaunts were an older family than the Atwells, and my uncle didn’t want them to die out—”
“Atwell! It can’t be possible!” cried Gwendolyn, “John Rufus Atwell?”
“Yes, that was his full name. Did you ever know him?”