“It was certainly interesting,” said her aunt. “A trifle naturalistic at times, I thought.”
“Was he? I don’t know. We used to wonder, mama, if he ever really cared for Alice Leigh. After that morning I made up my mind he never did. He spent ten minutes comparing her head and neck to that of the Diana.”
“What a feminine test!” said Lyndsay. “If a man were to tell you that you looked like the Venus of Melos, Rose, would you say, ‘No, sir; you can’t care for me. It is impossible. I shall always,’ etc., etc.—the usual formula?”
“You are too bad, Pardy! My convictions are unshaken. Mr. St. Clair told me; he did not tell her. If he had told her, I know he would have said it in that soft, convinced way. She would have liked it.”
“I see,” said Lyndsay; “it becomes clearer.”
“Why do men sneer at him? I think him—well, I think him indescribably attractive. The word ‘fascinating’ would answer. And I am sorry for poor Mrs. North; oh, I am! Fascinating—yes, that is what I should call him, and oddly unconventional.”
“I think you young folks are too apt to use that word ‘fascinating,’” said her mother. “I have no liking for these men who can fascinate, and can’t hold fast to the affections of any one.”
At this Anne burst into inextinguishable laughter, and, with one hand pressed on the aching side which was so apt to check her wilder mirth, she held out the other to the astonished Mrs. Lyndsay, exclaiming:
“A forfeit—a pun from Margaret. Five cents—ten cents; a forfeit!”
“And what did I say?”