Lydia raised her eyebrows a little.
“I was not thinking about women, or what they should do. I think everyone, woman or not, likes best to look after their own affairs themselves.”
“Do you think so? I have always been brought up to believe that it was a man’s part to take the rough work, and that a woman did well to accept his help.”
“Cousin Lionel,” said Lydia, “if you are angry because I went off to Mr. Bonamy’s myself, instead of leaving you to work things your own way, you are surely very unreasonable. I was sure of it; there was not any reason to doubt; and why should I bother you about what I could do so easily? It was my business; you could not be supposed to—take—much interest.”
“Trouble me!” he cried, “take much interest! Do you think there is anything you care for that I don’t take an interest in? What is the chief thing I have thought of ever since I knew you? You speak so much at your ease; I wish you would tell me that.”
“I hope it is nothing to be angry with me about,” said Lydia, with meekness, “but how can I know?”
“No, I suppose you don’t know,” he said, with almost a scornful tone, “you have only seen me every day these five months, and talked to me, and pretended to take some interest in me, as you say; and now you turn upon me and ask me how can you know? How can you help knowing? is what I should say.”
“Cousin Lionel, I don’t know why you should be angry. If I had waited for you this morning I should have lost my chance. There was so little time to do anything; and time runs away so fast when it is the last day.”
“Do you think I am talking only of this morning? What is this morning? It is all the time I complain of. It has just been the same all the time.”
And now it was Lydia’s turn to look round, this time in unfeigned surprise; but her glance at him, perhaps, gave her more information than his words: at least, there was a subtle tone of hypocrisy in the meekness with which she asked.