“No! What?” was her answer.
“Do you not see that Gwyneth has fallen in love with the curate?”
“No,” said Hilary, coloring crimson, “has she?”
“So it appears to me.”
“Well, and what then? How could I help it? What must I do? Why should it signify?”
“Signify! do you think Mr. Ufford intended it?”
“I do not know. I am sure Gwyneth has not such an idea in her head; perhaps they are both unconscious; but don’t you like him?”
“Not much. I do not think he is real. He should talk less, and act more. He may be half in love himself with Gwyneth; but it is in that aimless, purposeless way, which will never grow to any good end. He likes to keep her to himself; he likes to talk to her; but while he can amuse himself as he does, enjoying her admiration and devotion, and feeling sure of her preference, he will not ever care to exert himself for more.”
“But what can I do?” said Hilary, distressed.
“Now a clever, active, manœuvering mother might fix him directly. Any one, in fact, who would condescend to use the requisite arts and exertions. There is a tact in managing these affairs, which few girls possess. They are sincere, ardent, yet shy, modest, undemonstrative; they can do nothing but waste their own affections. It never succeeds with a character like Mr. Ufford’s, compounded of much good, alloyed by selfish and self-indulgent vanity.”