"But, Marcia, let me return a moment to what you were saying. Did the reason never occur to you, why you so soon become tired of your admirers? You see through them, you say. Is it not possible that a lady who has the reputation of caprice,—a flirt, as the world is apt to call her,—though ever so brilliant, witty, and accomplished, may not attract the kind of men that can bear scrutiny, but only the butterfly race, fit for a brief acquaintance? Believe me, Marcia, there is a reason for everything, and, with all your beauty and fascination, you must yourself have the element of constancy, to win the admiration of the best and worthiest men."
"So, you are going to preach?" said Marcia, rather crestfallen.
"No, I don't preach. But what I see, I ought to tell you; I should not be a good sister otherwise."
"I'll think about it. But now for the musical party. I mean to send for Mr. Greenleaf, to practise some songs and duets. He is not a butterfly, I am sure."
"But, Marcia, is it well, is it right, for you to try to fascinate this new friend of yours, unless you feel something more than a transient interest in him?"
"How can I tell what interest I shall feel in him, until I know him better?"
"But you know his circumstances and his prospects. You are not the woman to marry a poor painter. You have too many wants; or rather, you have become accustomed to luxuries that now seem to be necessaries."
"True, I haven't the romance for love in a cottage. But a painter is not necessarily a bad match; if he doesn't become rich, he may be distinguished. And besides, no one knows what will happen from the beginning of an acquaintance. We will enjoy the sunshine of to-day; and if to-morrow brings a darker sky, we must console ourselves as we can."
"What an Epicurean! Well, Marcia, you are not a child; you must act for yourself."
Marcia made no reply, but sat down to her desk to write a note; and her sister-in-law soon after went to her own room.