"We have never been at Vallombrosa, have we?" asks she.
"Never."
"Well, we are going there to-morrow."
"Are we? is that your treat?" inquires he, wondering what of peculiarly and distinctively festal for him this expedition may be supposed to have above all their former ones.
"And we are not going alone."
"There is nothing very exceptional in that; Cecilia is mostly good enough to lend us her company."
"I am not thinking of Cecilia; I have persuaded"—the benevolent smile broadening across her cheeks—"I have persuaded some friends of yours to join us."
It does not for an instant cross his mind either to doubt or to affect uncertainty as to who the friends of whom she speaks may be; but the suggestion is so profoundly unwelcome to him, that not even the certainty of mortifying the unselfish creature before him can hinder him from showing it. Her countenance falls.
"You are not glad?" she asks crestfallenly, "you are not pleased?"
It is impossible for him to say that he is, and all that is left to him is to put his vexation into words that may be as little as possible fraught with disappointment to his poor hearer's ear.