“But, my dear,” said the Vice-Consul, with a troubled face, “I don’t think that would do at all; he would think that he had my permission to—to pay you his addresses, as people used to say?”
“What are addresses?” said Rita, with much appearance of innocence. “You must tell him, of course, that there is to be nothing of that kind; but only just that he is to come as before. I don’t see that it need do him any harm—I mean any further harm,” said the girl, correcting herself. She spoke with unusual airiness and carelessness, so lightly indeed that her indifference had the aspect of being somewhat studied.
“Him—harm! that was not the question,” the perplexed father said.
“I hope you don’t mean to infer that it would do me any harm?” said Rita, turning upon him with a smile of superb disdain. She even laughed a little at the folly of the idea, opening and shutting a fan which she held in her hand. “That would be too ridiculous—too ridiculous,” she said.
“But, my dear child, you are young and inexperienced, and—”
“Don’t insult me, please, papa,” she said, fanning herself. If she had been fifty she could not have looked more superior to any such temptation. “And, on the other hand,” she added, “I don’t see why poor Mr. Oliver should be punished, positively punished for liking me. It is not a sin to like me. Of course he must learn to keep it to himself; it will be a good lesson in self-control—which everybody is the better for,” said this young oracle, “and especially, as I have always heard, young men.”
This wisdom took away the Vice-Consul’s breath. “That is very true:” he said “but I am not at all sure that this is a safe way of teaching it. I think, if it is the same to you, Rita—”
“But it is not the same to me,” she cried, impatiently. “If you will not set poor Mr. Oliver right and do him justice, I think I will go and pay that visit my aunt Ersilia always wants me to make her. You said yourself I must go one day or other. I will go now.”
Now if there was one thing more than another which Mr. Bonamy was afraid of, it was this visit to her aunt Ersilia, her mother’s Italian sister, with which she threatened him from time to time. He said hurriedly, “I don’t think this is a good time for going further south, Rita. Of course, if you wish it so much, I will gladly remove the embargo on poor Oliver, who is a very good, honest sort of fellow; but I can’t have him tormented, poor boy—and you must promise to be very distant with him, which is the kindest thing you can do.”
“But not too distant, papa,” said Rita; “for I think it a great deal better that he should suppose I do not know. Far better. I will behave to him just as usual. I will withdraw gradually, bit by bit, that he may not feel too much difference. Indeed, unless he is different to me, I don’t see why I should be different to him. Of course he will be on his guard. You see he knows now. Naturally he will be more careful. He will understand that if you let him come back he is upon his honour. So, on the whole, I will make very little difference. I think it is far better that everything should have the look of being just the same as before.”