Edith gasped. Then she said very gently and gravely:
“My dear Leslie, this is your home.”
He got up and walked about; she hadn’t used her advantage over him; she hadn’t even made him look a fool. He was almost willing to acknowledge that he was one.
“I think I’d like to tell you all about it,” he began, “if you’re sure I sha’n’t bore you?”
“No, you won’t bore me,” said his companion.
“I daresay you know--I daresay you may have heard some talk about--about Anastasia Falaise? Of course, you don’t know what she’s like; people talk such confounded rot about her, especially women. You should hear Aunt Etta. They say she’s old; of course, it’s all jealousy. She may be twenty-five--that’s older than me, of course--I’m not quite twenty,” (his nineteenth birthday had taken place a week previously), “but then what’s five years?”
His step-mother was not prepared to say off-hand what five years were; they might be such different things; so she looked at the boy sympathetically and shook her head.
“People talk such beastly stuff about age,” the youth continued fiercely, “and not knowing your own mind; why, of course, I know she’s perfect. Why, Edith--Cleopatra, and Mary Queen of Scots, and Helen of Troy--they couldn’t have been anything to Anastasia--she’s--she’s--well, the poets are all really idiots; none of them describe her decently!”
Edith looked as if she quite believed this; in her heart of hearts she thought that the poets had under-estimated Horace, but that was very probably because they were, generally speaking, men.
“Do you know, I can’t believe in my luck, Edith--I can’t really; she might have married princes, and she’s fond of me,” cried the boy.