So Barbara argued with herself. Certainly Eve must not be left to select her husband. She was a creature of impulse, without a grain of common-sense in her whole nature.
Barbara drew Eve down beside her on the sofa at the foot of her bed, and put her arm round her waist. Eve was pouting, and had red eyes; for her sister had scolded her that morning sharply for her conduct the preceding night, and her father had been excited, and for the first time in his life had spoken angrily to her, and bidden her cast off and never resume the costume in which she had dressed and bedizened herself.
Eve had retired to her room in a sulk, and in a rebellious frame of mind. She cried and called herself an ill-treated girl, and was overcome with immense pity for the hardships she had to undergo among people who could not understand and would not humour her.
Eve’s lips were screwed up, and her brow as nearly contracted into a frown as it could be, and her sweet cheeks were kindled with fiery temper-spots.
‘Eve dear,’ said Barbara, ‘Mr. Coyshe is come.’
Eve made no answer, her lips took another screw, and her brows contracted a little more.
‘Eve, he is closeted now with papa, and I know he has come to ask for the hand of the dearest little girl in the whole world.’
‘Stuff!’ said Eve peevishly.
‘Not stuff at all,’ argued Barbara, ‘nor’—intercepting another exclamation—’no, dear, nor fiddlesticks. He has been talking to me in the parlour. He is sincerely attached to you. He is an odd man, and views things in quite a different way from others, but I think I made out that he wanted you to be his wife.’