"It was." Lydia faced her sister, holding up the note from Lady Tatham.
"We are all to dine with them next week."
"He has been here nearly every other day for a fortnight," said Susan, with feminine exaggeration. "It is becoming so marked that everybody talks."
"Well, I can't help it," said Lydia defiantly. "We are not a convent; and we can hardly padlock the gate."
"You should discourage him—if you don't mean to marry him."
"My dear, I like him so!" cried Lydia, her hands behind her, and tossing her fair head. "Marrying!—I hate the word."
"He cares—and you don't," said Susan slowly, "that makes it very unfair—to him."
Lydia frowned for a moment, but only for a moment.
"I'm not encouraging him, Susy—not in the way you mean. But why should I drive him away, or be rude to him? I want to put things on a proper footing—so that he'll understand."
"He's going to propose to you," said Susan bluntly.
"Well, then, we shall get it over," said Lydia, reluctantly. "And you don't imagine that such a golden youth will trouble about such a trifle for long. Think of all the other things he has to amuse him. Why, if I broke my heart, you know I should still want to paint," she added, flippantly.