“I cannot say, mamma. You must remember that it is my case and not his. I don’t know what I should have done. But it was not necessary, for he said nothing about it.”
“Bee, my dear child, he may have said nothing; but you know very well that when he said it was entirely broken off he meant what he said.”
“Papa is very capable of saying what he means,” said Bee. “I did not think it was any business of mine to inquire what might be his secret meaning. Mamma, dear, don’t be vexed; but, oh, that would have been too hard! And for Aubrey, too.”
“I think much less of Aubrey that he should carry on a clandestine correspondence with a girl like you.”
“Clandestine!” cried Bee, with blazing eyes. “No more clandestine than your letters that come by the post with your own name upon them. If Aubrey did not scorn anything that is clandestine, I should. There is nothing like that between him and me.”
“I never supposed you would be guilty of any artifice, Bee; but you are going completely against your father—making a fool of him, indeed—making it all ridiculous—when you carry on a correspondence, as if you were engaged, after he has broken everything off.”
“I am engaged,” said Bee, very low.
“What do you say? Bee, this is out of the question. I shall have to tell your father when he comes back. “Oh! child, child, how you turn this delightful time into trouble. I shall be obliged to tell your father when he comes back.”
“Perhaps it will be your duty, mamma,” said Bee, the colour going out of her face; “and then I shall have to consider what is mine,” she said.
“Oh, Bee, Bee! Oh! how hard you make it for me. Oh! how I wish you had never seen him, nor heard of him,” Mrs. Kingsward cried.