“I would forget. I mean—Well, I couldn’t, you know,” he said, and laughed. “Now I’ve got her, you see, and don’t need to try. I do not mind telling you—you seem so interested, and are so sympathetic to-day—that I only forgot her when it was noisy and all that. But when I was alone and quiet—at night, you know—I was miserable. You have nothing like that to worry you, Miss Archer? It is very kind of you to take so much interest in my trouble. You won’t think of your relations when you get to town. Are they in Canada?”
“Yes.”
“And one died—a girl, I suppose? And the others want to interfere with you; they want you to be dull because they are? Relations always do that. Now, I have an aunt—she’s a caution; she thinks I ought not to marry. But I would not stand that. Have you any aunts in town?”
“No. My father has a cousin; Mrs. Carden is her name.”
“She won’t bother you, I expect. You are lucky. Your father adores you. You have plenty of money, and are young. My Aunt Maria is a—Oh, the very deuce.”
Here he launched forth into anecdotes of his relations, and Launa murmured a polite accompaniment to his reminiscences until the bell rang for dinner.
“We’ll meet after dinner, won’t we, and finish our talk? It’s very jolly,” he said. “You have such a nice voice, too.”
“You have done me a great deal of good,” she answered. “Time is all one wants.”
“And life, amusement, and love,” he added softly, with a glance at her, which, considering the state of his feelings for another lady, was unnecessarily kind.
“Leave out love,” she answered. “I am hungry.”