Mary lifted her eyes, a smile and a glow on her bright face. A lovely picture, she, in her delicate summer muslin dress.
"I tell every one she is devoted to me," went on Henry, in his quaint fashion. "'Very strange that handsome girl, Mary Ashley, does not get married!' cries Helstonleigh. Mary, my dear, I know your vanity is already as great as it can be, so I don't fear to increase it. 'My sister get married!' I say to them. 'Not she; she has resolved to make a noble sacrifice of herself for my sake, and live at home with me, a vestal virgin, and see to the puddings.'"
The smile left Mary's face—the glow remained. "I do wish you would not talk nonsense, Henry! As if Helstonleigh troubled itself to make remarks upon me. It is not so rude as you are."
"Just hark at her!" returned Henry. "Helstonleigh not trouble itself to make remarks! When you know the town was up in arms when you refused Sir Harry Marr, and sent him packing. Such an honour had never fallen to its luck before—that one of its fair citizens, born and bred, should have the chance of becoming a real live My Lady."
Mary was cutting a pencil at the moment, and broke the point off. "Papa," cried she, turning her hot face to his, "can't you make Henry talk sense?—if he must talk at all."
Mrs. Ashley interposed. It was quite true that Mary had had, as Henry phrased it, a chance of becoming a "real live My Lady"; and there lurked in Mrs. Ashley's heart a shadow of grievance, of disappointment, that she should have refused the honour. She spoke rather sharply, taking Henry's part, not Mary's.
"Henry is talking nothing but sense. My opinion is that you behaved quite rudely to Sir Harry. It is an offer you will not have again, Mary. Still," added Mrs. Ashley, subduing her tone a little, "it is no business of Helstonleigh's; neither do I see whence the town could have derived its knowledge."
"As if any news could be stirring, good or bad, that Helstonleigh does not ferret its way to!" returned Henry.
"My belief is that Henry went and told," retorted Mary.
"I! what next?" cried Henry. "As if I should tell of the graceless doings of my sister; it is bad enough to lie under the weighty knowledge one's self."