"A week or two," said he, carelessly.
"Fie, naughty man—it is a month—a whole month—you ought not to be a worse reckoner of time than myself—it was very kind of you to come and welcome me home."
"Don't thank me for that: I did not know you were here, I assure you; I knew you were not at the ball; but I thought it was a sore throat, or something of that sort kept you away: have you really been gone a month!—I could have sworn I saw you a week ago. Your sister has come, I suppose, since you left?"
"Emma! oh yes, charming Emma—imagine my feelings at meeting her—I was so anxious, but so fearful—timid as I am, you can fancy how afraid I should feel at meeting a new sister. Can you not understand the feeling?"
"Not the least in the world," cried Tom aloud; "I cannot fancy any one afraid of meeting Miss Emma Watson."
"Is she not lovely—I think her quite beautiful—but, perhaps, you do not admire dark complexions—tell me, which do you like best—brunette or blonde."
Tom hesitated. Margaret herself was fair, which would alone have been a sufficient reason for his asserting a preference for an olive skin—but then Miss Carr was fair likewise—and he was a great admirer of Miss Carr's. He, therefore, replied evasively—
"Your sister's is, no doubt, a very lovely complexion—I like dark beauties excessively—but now and then one sees a blonde, whose tint is relieved from the insipidity which usually attends it—Miss Carr, for instance—did you ever see Fanny Carr?"
"No," said Margaret, almost pouting.
"She has the loveliest skin I ever saw—and a very nice little thing is Fanny Carr, independent of her complexion—a very nice, lively, bewitching little fairy, with those she likes—though, to be sure, she can be disagreeable enough, I am told—but, Miss Watson," continued he, jumping up to put an end to Margaret's whispers, "do let me help you at the tea-table—why will you not make me of use—pray don't scruple to call on me—I love to be of use to the fair."