“And how doth Harry?”
“He is a good honest fellow,” said Nancy, “though conceited and a prig; his mouth full of learned words, and his head full of books. He seemed to pine after your departure, Kitty, but soon recovered himself, and now eats and drinks again as before. He found some congenial spirits from Oxford at Bath, and they used to talk of Art, and pictures (when any one was listening), and bronzes, and all sorts of things that we poor people know nothing of.”
Then she told me how Harry had made a poem upon me, after my departure, which he turned into Latin, Greek, and Italian, and had given Nancy a copy. And how Will had christened one pup Kitty, and another Pleydell, and a third Kitty Pleydell, and was casting around how to give a fourth puppy my name as well.
It seemed so long ago that I had almost forgotten poor rustic Will, with his red face, his short sturdy figure, and his determination.
“Dear Kitty,” said Nancy, “if thou couldst take a fancy for our Will—he is a brave lad, though dull of parts and slow of apprehension. As for Harry”—here she stopped, and blushed.
I remembered my secret, and blushed as well (but for guilt and shame); while poor Nancy blushed in maiden modesty.
“Dear Nancy,” I replied, kissing her, “believe me, but I could never marry your brother Will. And as for Harry——”
“As for Harry,” she echoed, with downcast eyes.
It was easy to read her secret, though she could not guess mine.
“As for Harry,” I said, “where could he be better bestowed than——”