“Oh, that I am too impulsive and all that, and that I shall get into trouble some day by making friends of unknown strangers, who may turn out after all to be disreputable actresses or anarchists in disguise.”
“Nonsense! But really, Margaret, you can never tell; all sorts of people come to these hotels.”
“Just as if I didn’t know that! Ah, my dear Granville, you may be very clever; your head is full of classics and politics, and things I don’t know anything about, but you’ve ‘no art to find the mind’s construction in the face,’ and that is just what I have. Now, can you say you have ever known me wrong in my estimate of people?”
“Not so far, certainly. But doesn’t it strike you as a little odd that so young a girl should be running about the country by herself?”
“Not at all,” and Margaret poured out Catherine’s story. “Poor little thing! She is terribly lonely. You and I must do our best to look after her, and give her a good time while we are here.”
Now this was a very heroic and unselfish resolution on Margaret’s part, for she did not often get her brother to herself, and this holiday had been anticipated with all the more pleasure on that account.
“As you will,” he said. “I will do my best to please you. I only hope that your charity may not be blinding your judgment. You are the only woman I know who is absurdly susceptible to beauty in her own sex.”
“Susceptible to beauty!” cried Margaret, with laughing eyes. “Just as if I should have noticed her at all if you had not made her change places with you. After all, Granville, you see it was you who began the acquaintance.”
“How absurd! Any fellow would have done that. Didn’t you see that she was on the point of tears?”
Margaret smiled wisely.