Diana looked from one to the other, really puzzled and full of inquiries. “Is it—you must not be angry, Sophy—but I do hope it is the best man in the world, though we have laughed at him so much—William Snodgrass? Nay, don’t be angry. He is the only one I can think of—I am at my wits’ end.”
“William Snodgrass! dear Bill!” said Sophy, mimicking the tone in which the rector spoke of the curate. “When you know I never could bear him, Diana!”
“Then, who is it?” said Diana, shaking her head, yet with all the calm of perfect serenity. She drew the girl towards her, and kissed Sophy kindly. “I need not wait for my good wishes till I have found out,” she said. “If you are as happy as I wish you, you will be very happy. You wicked little thing, to steal a march upon us like this!”
“Oh, I did not steal a march upon you: oh, ask auntie,” cried Sophy, burying her head on Diana’s shoulder. The only thing that tried Diana’s temper and never-failing indulgence was these clinging embraces, in which she did not know how to take her part.
“The fact is,” said Mrs. Norton, “that we have strained a point in coming to tell you so soon. But I could not bear that you should not know at once—you who have always been so fond of Sophy—indeed I am sure a mother could not have been more kind. I said to her, Diana must know: I cannot put off telling Diana: especially as perhaps it may make a difference in her plans. Yes, indeed, I have seen what was coming. I have felt all along that more was in his ways than met the eye. Before you came over, Diana—when we were here first, and feeling a little strange—oh, do you remember, Sophy, how kind, how very kind, he used to be?”
Diana looked at them more and more surprised. Who could it be? Some young Italian whom she had not remarked—or some travelling Englishman, perhaps, who had just come back after “doing” Rome and Florence, as so many did. Both of these classes were to be found among Mr. Hunstanton’s friends.
“Yes, he always distinguished us—not even Sophy only, but me for her sake. Just what such a chivalrous man would do. You will divine now, Diana, who it is. Dear Mr. Pandolfini! And he is so modest. He had so little confidence in himself that it was Mr. Hunstanton who came to us first to break the ice. He was so afraid she would say No.”
Diana listened confounded. She looked from Sophy to her aunt with lips falling apart in her wonder and consternation. She did not hear anything Mrs. Norton said after his name. “Mr. Pandolfini! Mr. Pandolfini!—are you sure there is no mistake?” she said with a gasp.
“Mistake! oh no, there is no mistake!” they both cried in a breath. Diana came to herself with a sudden sense of shame, for all the very different sentiments she had been putting into his mind. Her face was suddenly covered with a vivid blush. What an absurd mistake to make! She had been so sorry for him; and all the time it was Sophy, and he was the happiest of men. She blushed, and then she laughed, but there was a kind of agitation in both; for to feel that one has so entirely misjudged a man, and been so vain, so secure of one’s own superior attractions! It was too ridiculous! She felt angry and ashamed of herself. And then there was something so utterly incongruous, so absurd, in the conjunction—Mr. Pandolfini! Could any one believe it? The two little women opposite enjoyed her surprise. They enjoyed even the discomfiture which they did not comprehend. Could Diana have thought of him herself? This was the thought that flashed across both their minds.
“I am sure I beg your pardon,” said Diana. “You have indeed taken me entirely by surprise. I never would have thought of Mr. Pandolfini. Mr. Pandolfini! Nay, you must not be angry, Sophy; but he is so much older, so much more serious, somewhat so entirely different from you!”