Burgoyne's eyebrows have gone up, and his face has assumed an expression less of surprise than admiration at this piece of news.
"How many does that make? Four? Well, courage! There is luck in odd numbers; perhaps she will land the fifth."
"She will tell you about it herself," says Amelia; "she tells everybody; she likes talking about it—it is very odd, but she does. When you throw me over"—rubbing his hand which she holds, with shy and deprecating caressingness, against her own cheek—"I shall tell nobody; I shall keep my misfortune very dark."
"When I do!" repeats he with laughing emphasis; but to his own ear both the emphasis and the laughter sound flat. This is perhaps the cause why he, a second time, runs away from his subject; or, more probably, he is really in haste to get to the new one. "Meanwhile," he says, his eyes involuntarily dropping to the carpet, as if he had rather not see the effect of his words upon her; "meanwhile, someone has thrown me over."
"You?"
"Yes, me; I did not write it to you, because I do not see much use in putting down bad news in black and white, and even with this little delay, I am afraid," with a dry smile, "that you will have plenty of time to enjoy it."
He pauses for an instant, and she does not hurry him with any teasing questions; but waits, with meek patience, till he feels inclined to go on.
"My aunt is going to be married."
If he has wished that his news shall produce the effect of a torpedo, he has no cause to complain of his want of success. His placid Amelia vaults to her feet.
"Married!" she repeats with a gasp. "Why, she is quite, quite old!"