“Now, I'm afraid that may be he was only playing with me, and putting me off; and pretending that he had something to tell me when he got to Venice, and he never meant anything by anything.”
“Is he coming to—” her aunt began, but Lydia broke vehemently out again.
“If he had cared for me, why couldn't he have told me so at once, and not had me wait till he got to Venice? He knew I—”
“There are two ways of explaining it,” said Mrs. Erwin. “He may have been in earnest, Lydia, and felt that he had no right to be more explicit till you were in the care of your friends. That would be the European way which you consider so bad,” said Mrs. Erwin. “Under the circumstances, it was impossible for him to keep any distance, and all he could do was to postpone his declaration till there could be something like good form about it. Yes, it might have been that.” She was silent, but the troubled look did not leave her face. “I am sorry for you, Lydia,” she resumed, “but I don't know that I wish he was in earnest.” Lydia looked up at her in dismay. “It might be far less embarrassing the other way, however painful. He may not be at all a suitable person.” The tears stood in Lydia's eyes, and all her face expressed a puzzled suspense. “Where was he from?” asked Mrs. Erwin, finally; till then she had been more interested in the lover than the man.
“Boston,” mechanically answered Lydia.
“What was his name?”
“Mr. Staniford,” owned Lydia, with a blush.
Her aunt seemed dispirited at the sound. “Yes, I know who they are,” she sighed.
“And aren't they nice? Isn't he—suitable?” asked Lydia, tremulously.
“Oh, poor child! He's only too suitable. I can't explain to you, Lydia; but at home he wouldn't have looked at a girl like you. What sort of looking person is he?”