Afterwards Isabella and Celia were talking of their new friend Otho.
"He does not seem to me like a Spaniard," said Celia, "his complexion is so light; then, too, his name sounds German."
"But his passions are quick," replied Isabella. "How he colored up when he spoke of the honor of his family!"
"I wonder that you like him," said Celia; "when he is with his mother, he hardly ventures to say his soul is his own."
"I don't like his mother," said Isabella; "her manner is too imperious and unrefined, it appears to me. No wonder that Otho is ill at ease in her presence. It is evident that her way of talking is not agreeable to him. He is afraid that she will commit herself in some way."
"But he never stands up for himself," answered Celia; "he always yields to her. Now I should not think you would like that."
"He yields because she is his mother," said Isabella; "and it would not be becoming to contradict her."
"He yields to you, too," said Celia; "how happens that?"
"I hope he does not yield to me more than is becoming," answered Isabella, laughing; "perhaps that is why I like him. After all, I don't care to be always sparring, as I am with Lawrence Egerton. With Otho I find that I agree wonderfully in many things. Neither of us yields to the other, neither of us is obliged to convince the other."
"Now I should think you would find that stupid," said Celia. "What becomes of this desire of yours never to rest, always to be struggling after something?"