“Oh,” she cried, “you don’t think mamma was one of the adoring kind, I hope! There may be things in her which might be mended; but she is not like that. She kept one in one’s proper place. And as for the violin, I suspect he plays it like an old fiddler in the streets.”
“You have changed your mind about it very rapidly,” said Waring; but on the whole he was pleased. “You seemed much interested both in the hero and the music, a little while ago.”
“Yes; was I not?” said Constance with perfect candour. “And he took it all in, as if it were likely. These young men from India, they are very ingenuous. It seems wicked to take advantage of them, does it not?”
“More people are ingenuous than the young man from India. I intended to speak to you very seriously as soon as he was gone—to ask you——”
“What were my intentions?” cried Constance, with an outburst of the gayest laughter. “Oh, what a pity I began! How sorry I am to have missed that! Do you think his mother will ask me, papa? It is generally the man, isn’t it, who is questioned? and he says his intentions are honourable. Mine, I frankly allow, are not honourable.”
“No; very much the reverse, I should think. But it had better be clearly defined, for my satisfaction, Constance, which of you is true—the girl who cried over her loneliness last night, or she who made love to Captain Gaunt this morning——”
“No, papa; only was a little nice to him, because he is lonely too.”
“These delicacies of expression are too fine for me.—— Who made the poor young fellow believe that she liked his society immensely, was much interested, counted upon him and his violin as her greatest pleasures.”
“You are going too far,” she said. “I think the fiddle will be fun. When you play very badly and are a little conceited about it, you are always amusing. And as for Captain Gaunt—so long as he does not complain——”
“It is I who am complaining, Constance.”