"But surely you're not that yet!" she pleaded. "Nor near! You are only eighteen."
"Well, and what are you?" he retorted. "And you were for being married yesterday!"
"I was!" she cried, wringing her hands. "And to what a fate! I am unhappy to-day, unhappy, indeed; but I shall be thankful all my life that I escaped that! Oh, Tom, for my sake take care! Don't do it! Don't do it! Wait, at least, until----"
"Till I am Methuselah?" he cried. "It's likely!"
"No, but until you have taken advice!" she answered. "Till you know more about her. Tom, don't be angry," Sophia pleaded, as he turned away with an impatient gesture. "Or if you will not be guided, tell me, at least, who she is. I am your sister, surely I have the right to know who is to be your wife?"
"I am sure I don't mind your knowing!"
"I have only your interests at heart," she cried.
"I have no reason to be ashamed of her, I am sure," he answered, colouring. "Though I don't know that she is altogether one of your sort. She is the most beautiful woman in the world that I know! And so you will say when you see her!" he added, his eyes sparkling. "She has as much wit in her little finger as I have in my head. And you'll find that out, too. She don't look at most people, but she took to me at once. It seems wonderful to me now," he continued rapturously. "Wonderful! But you should see her! You must see her! You can't fancy what she is until you see her!"
It was on the tip of Sophia's tongue to ask, "But is she good?" Like a wise girl, however, she refrained; or rather she put the question in another form. "Her name," she said timidly; "is it by any chance--Oriana?"
Tom was pacing the room, his back to her, his thoughts occupied with his mistress's charms. He whirled about so rapidly that the tassels of his morning wrapper--at that period the only wear of a gentleman until he dressed for the day--flew out level with the horizon. "How did you know?" he cried, his face flushed, his eyes reading her suspiciously. "Who told you?"