“Common sense—yes,—I think you yourself must understand it.”
“Because you told me, first, that I had a streak of genius,—flatterer?”
“Precisely; I credit you with bullion, and you are not worried that I should deny you the small change of every-day life. You see I am as deep as Machiavelli,—in other words, as full of common sense as an egg is of meat. Lucy will not be home,” said she, abruptly veering off from the line of their talk, as she seated herself on the edge of the bed, “till the middle of January.”
“No; I am so sorry. What made you think of her?”
“Because I wish she were here right now.”
“Why, pray?”
“Because, from what I saw in Richmond, the Don might devote himself to her instead of you.”
“Thank you for wishing to rob me of an admirer, as you pretend to deem him!”
“No, I am glad she is not here. She is so pure and earnest, so single-minded and devoted, that I should tremble to see her exposed to such a danger.”
“And I am so—”