“No use at all,” said I. “And what’s more—though I’m a heretic for saying so—in my opinion a woman has a perfect right to choose for herself the man that the law compels her to live with.”
“Shame! shame!” groaned my aunt. “You can’t mean what you say. Aren’t you, too, grossly deceived?”
“No!” interrupted Conny, a sudden blush dyeing her face scarlet. “Charlie knew that I didn’t—that I couldn’t love him—greatly as I liked him.”
Oh! I thought, if you weren’t a young bride, if it weren’t incumbent upon me to respect your feelings, if it wouldn’t be unmanly to deliver myself of my sentiments, how I could make you writhe. But I’ll spare thee, Conny, which I could not do, had I truly loved thee.
“Conny’s quite right,” said I aloud, “she never gave me any encouragement, she always told me she only liked me. I was very impertinent to dare to have any hopes.”
She turned a look of triumph on her Theodore. Come, I was a sore point anyhow, which was better than being nothing at all.
“Why must we be personal?” cried my uncle.
“What are we to talk about if we mayn’t speak of this aw—this dread—this—this—thing?” sobbed my aunt.
“Well, you must excuse me for taking Charlie into the library,” said he, rising and laying hold of my arm. “I have many questions to ask him about the bank.”
Mr. Curling looked at us as if he should cry out, “For the love of heaven, don’t leave me!” But my uncle took no notice, and hurriedly walked me out of the room, not even giving me time to make a bow to the happy trio I left behind.