“When papa and mamma are here, I suppose there need be no mistering,” says Theo, looking out of the window, ever so little frightened. “And what have you been doing, sir? Reading books, or writing more of your tragedy? Is it going to be a tragedy to make us cry, as we like them, or only to frighten us, as you like them?”
“There is plenty of killing, but, I fear, not much crying. I have not met many women. I have not been very intimate with those. I daresay what I have written is only taken out of books or parodied from poems which I have read and imitated like other young men. Women do not speak to me, generally; I am said to have a sarcastic way which displeases them.”
“Perhaps you never cared to please them?” inquires Miss Theo, with a blush.
“I displeased you last night; you know I did?”
“Yes; only it can't be called displeasure, and afterwards thought I was wrong.”
“Did you think about me at all when I was away, Theo?”
“Yes, George—that is, Mr.—well, George! I thought you and papa were right about the play; and, as you said, that it was no real sorrow, only affectation, which was moving us. I wonder whether it is good or ill fortune to see so clearly? Hetty and I agreed that we would be very careful, for the future, how we allowed ourselves to enjoy a tragedy. So, be careful when yours comes! What is the name of it?”
“He is not christened. Will you be the godmother? The name of the chief character is——” But at this very moment mamma and Miss Hetty arrived from their walk; and mamma straightway began protesting that she never expected to see Mr. Warrington at all that day—that is, she thought he might come—that is, it was very good of him to come, and the play and the supper of yesterday were all charming, except that Theo had a little headache this morning.
“I dare say it is better now, mamma,” says Miss Hetty.
“Indeed, my dear, it never was of any consequence; and I told mamma so,” says Miss Theo, with a toss of her head.