"I certainly should not care for love in a garret, even with one of your so-called men of genius. And as for Milton, from what I have read of him, he was not one of the most agreeable of men to live with."
"The author of Paradise Lost' agreeable! Oh, Mora, Mora! have you no sense of the incongruous?" With this Cecilia rose, and putting her arm in Miss Browne's, went back into the drawing-room.
"Since papa died I have not felt so unhappy as I do to-night," said Mora, presently.
"And I never so happy in my life." Then, turning to kiss her friend for goodnight, Cecilia added, "There is one thing to be said he is not making love to me because I am rich, and that, with me, goes for much. There is another thing to be said," she added, in a whisper; "he has asked me to meet him."
"An appointment! Oh, Cecilia!"
"Yes, an appointment. Why not?"
"But--"
"Not another word," said Cecilia, smilingly laying her hand on Mora's lips. "You have heard enough to fill your thoughts for a little while. Goodnight and happy dreams."
Next morning Miss Browne was called away by a telegram. Her mother was seriously ill.
There was no opportunity before she went for any more confidences between Cecilia and herself.