"Rose, don't be a goose!" I replied, whilst the stupid colour flooded my face; "there is nothing to confess. I have seen Mr. Derwent only twice before in my life. He is little more than a stranger to me."
"A remarkable circumstance, however, my dear Grace, is that you have never mentioned his name in your rather voluminous correspondence, and yet you seem to be on familiar and even friendly terms; and our good friend Mother Hubbard——"
"Mother Hubbard, Rose, is romantic. The moment the man turned up at Easter she designated him as my lover. Let me be quite candid with you. If I was not so constituted that blushing comes as naturally to me as to a ripe cherry you would have had no reason to suspect anything. It is the innocent, I would remind you, who blush and look guilty. Mr. Derwent is a barrister—a friend of the vicar and of the squire—and he amuses himself by calling here when he is in the village—that is all. And if you are going to be as silly as Mother Hubbard it is too bad of you."
I felt this was frightfully weak and unconvincing, as the truth so often is.
"U-m!" said Rose, spreading the ejaculation over ten seconds; "I see. Then there's nothing more to be said about it. He isn't a bad sort, is he? Why in the world you never mentioned him in your letters I cannot conceive."
It was too bad of Rose.
CHAPTER XVI
THE CYNIC SPEAKS IN PARABLES
"What makes you call me the Cynic?" he inquired.