“Well then,” and Mildred looked round again, with a child-like air of triumph. “I would have you to know also that the man I’ve fallen in love with is very famous.”
Miss Verinder started and looked at her intently.
“But it’s nothing to do with his fame that has made me love him.”
Again Miss Verinder started, slightly.
“Of course I don’t mean to say that I wasn’t influenced by all that. You know what I mean? Seeing his photographs in the papers! Hearing what other girls said about him. And I own that I admired him before I knew him, but it was for himself and nothing else that I fell in love with him directly I did get to know him. The fact that he was celebrated and a favourite of the public was nothing then.”
And, now fairly started, Mildred opened her heart as she had never done before. She told Miss Verinder all she felt of the torturing bliss and exquisite pain that honest straightforward young girls suffer when this most potent of fevers catches them without warning, like a thunderclap. The tale of Mildred’s frenzied longings and cravings and hopes and fears brought faint old-maidish blushes to the smooth ivory of Miss Verinder’s cheeks. It was as though Mildred, like a small house on fire, had lit up a faint reflection in the far distance of a tranquil evening sky.
“There,” said Mildred, ceasing to flash and becoming quite calm. “Oh, Emmeline, that has done me good—even if you can’t help me. You know what I mean? Just to get it off one’s chest for once.” And then she laughed in a deprecating manner. “But I’m afraid I’m shocking you most frightfully.”
“No, my dear,” said Miss Verinder, “you are not shocking me in the least.”
“You are so kind. Well then, now you do see I’m in earnest, and how ridiculous it is for one’s people—”
“Yes. But who is he, Mildred? You haven’t told me yet.”