“If Delia were a child of mine,” said my good Constance, in her earnest way, “I would a thousand times rather trust her with Henry Wallingford than with Ralph Dewey.”
“Yes, and a thousand millions of times,” responded Mrs. Dean. “He is a man. You know just what he is, and where he is. But, as for this splashing nephew of Judge Bigelow's—who knows what's below the surface? Delia's father is all taken up with him, and thinks the match a splendid one. Sister don't say much; but I can see that she has her misgivings. I can talk to you freely, you know.”
“I don't think,” said I, “that Delia has grown more cheerful since her engagement. Brides expectant ought to feel as happy as the day is long.”
“More cheerful? Oh, dear, no! She isn't the same that she was at all; but mopes about more than half of her time. It's just my opinion—spoken between friends—that she cares, now, a great deal more for Henry than she does for Ralph.”
“Do they ever meet?” I inquired.
“Not very often.”
“They have met?”
“Yes, several times.”
“Have you seen them together?”
“Oh, yes.”