“How do you know?” asked Larcher.
“By the way he looks at her, and that sort of thing. And she knows it, too—I can see that.”
“And what does she appear to think about it?”
“What would she think about it? She has nothing against him; but of course it'll be love's labor lost on his side. I suppose he doesn't know that yet, poor fellow. All she can do is to ignore the signs, and avoid him as much as possible, and not hurt his feelings. It's a pity.”
“What is?”
“That she isn't open to—new impressions,—you know what I mean. He's an awfully nice young man, so tall and straight,—they would look so well together.”
“Edna, you amaze me!” said Larcher. “How can you want her to be inconstant? I thought you were full of admiration for her loyalty to Davenport.”
“So I was, when there was a tangible Davenport. As long as we knew he was alive, and within reach, there was a hope of straightening things out between them. I'd set my heart on accomplishing that.”
“I know you like to play the goddess from the machine,” observed Larcher.
“She's prematurely given to match-making,” said Aunt Clara, now restored to her placidity.