“No,” she replied, turning grey eyes upon me. “Mr. Bassishaw and the wedding—and Caroline. The presents don’t matter much, do they, Mr. Butterfield?”
I looked around in some doubt.
“I don’t know, Aggie,” I returned. “Every one appears to think a good deal of—that sort of thing—except you—and me. I think we shall be friends, Aggie.”
“Thank you, Mr. Butterfield.” The grey eyes looked into some middle distance that I could not follow. “Caroline does look nice,” she added, making an admission that for some reason did not seem easy to her. “But, of course, she’s your sister, and brothers do not think of that. Young brothers, I mean.”
“Your brothers are young, then, Aggie?”
“Yes; and they say no one will ever want to marry me; but that is when I won’t be tied to a table for them to fight about—an imprisoned princess, you know. It doesn’t matter—now,” she added, half to herself, and apparently forgetful of my presence.
“And you don’t like—all this?” I inquired, designating the surrounding bustle with my hand.
“No,” she replied in the same half-musing tone. “We shouldn’t have wanted bridesmaids and things, you know.—Of course”—she momentarily remembered my position—“it’s all lovely; but we should just have gone away somewhere and not have had anybody but perhaps a maid. We shouldn’t have wanted anyone else, you know; and we should have lived there ever so long. That would have been nice.”
She was scarcely talking to me; but I replied:
“It is the ideal wedding, Aggie, although it is only for the few—there are relations and people. I trust you will make a success of it. I hope you will allow me to make you a present, though?”