"Why not?"
"I think," said Mrs. Busby with an appearance of candour, "my guardianship is the proper one for her. How can you be her guardian, while she lives in my house, Mr. Southwode? Or how can you be her guardian out of it?"
"I promised her mother," he said. "How a promise shall be fulfilled, may admit of question; but not whether it shall be fulfilled."
"I know of but one way," Mrs. Busby went on, eyeing him now intently. "If you tell me you are intending to take that way,—then I have no more to say, of course. But I know of but one way in which it can be done."
Mr. Southwode laughed a little, a low, soft laugh, that in him always meant amusement. "I did not promise that to her mother," he said, "and I cannot promise it to you. It might be convenient, but I do not contemplate it."
"Then, Mr. Southwode, I feel it my duty to request that you fulfil your promise by acting through me."
It was well enough said; it was not without some ground of reason. If he could have felt sure of Mrs. Busby, it might have received, partially at least, his concurrence. But he was as far as possible from feeling sure of Mrs. Busby; and rather gave her credit for playing a clever mask. Upon a little pause which followed the last words, there came a ring at the door and the entrance of the young lady of the house. Antoinette was grown up excessively pretty, and was dressed to set off her prettiness. Her mother might be pardoned for viewing her with secret pride and exultation, if not for the thrill of jealous fear which accompanied the proud joy. That anybody should stand in this beauty's way!
"Mr. Southwode!" exclaimed the young lady. "It is Mr. Southwode come back. Why, Mr. Southwode, what has kept you so long? We heard you were coming five months ago. Why didn't you come then?"
Mrs. Busby wished her daughter had not said that.
"There were reasons—not interesting enough to occupy your ear with them."