“I believe she’s in Italy. I mean her to marry Frank Hurrell, the son of old Dr. Hurrell of Ferne.”
“Oh, but, Miss Ley, will she?”
“She’s never set eyes on him yet,” answered Miss Ley, smiling dryly, “But they’d suit one another admirably.”
“Doesn’t it make you feel sad to see the old house shut up?”
“My dear, I take care never to give way to regret, which is nearly as sinful as repentance.”
“I don’t understand you,” answered Miss Glover. “I don’t believe it means anything to you that, as far as ever you can see, it’s Ley land.”
“There you wrong me. I do feel a certain satisfaction in revisiting the place; it makes me so glad that I live somewhere else. But I dare say it’s a fine thing to be in the country on your own land, even if you’re only a woman. I like to feel that my roots are here. When I look round, I can hardly resist the temptation to take off my clothes and roll in a ploughed field.”
“I hope you won’t, Miss Ley,” answered Fanny Glover, somewhat shocked; “it would look so odd.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, my dear,” smiled the other. “You’re so innocent that each time I see you I expect to find wings sprouting on your shoulders.”
“I see you’re just the same as ever.”