“No matter,” I answered gloomily, folding my arms Lara-wise.
“I hope, Charlie, you have no reason to fear she does like that young man? If I really believed this to be the case, I should desire my husband to dismiss him at once. I wouldn’t have such a scandal—no! not to save my life.”
“My dear aunt, it is you who make me suspicious. I myself have heard and seen nothing. They don’t write to each other, I suppose?”
“And they never meet each other alone?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then I hardly see that there is anything to fear. If Conny were in love with Curling—the mere idea puts me in a passion!—I say, if Conny were silly enough to waste her priceless affection on a fellow of that kind, you would soon find it out. Something or other would happen. Either she’d meet him alone and be seen, or one of their letters would be intercepted.”
“Yes, the mere idea is enough to put one in a passion. As to her meeting him alone or writing to him, that is out of the question. She is my child, and I can answer for her conduct.”
“Oh, she tells her own story. She is deliciously artless and womanly, and inexpressibly pretty.”
“She is as God made her,” said my aunt, meekly.