“Ethel says you do not come to see them any more. Are you afraid of the Englishman?” There was a suppressed merriment in the girl’s voice as she asked this question.
“No,” replied Hugh, “I am not afraid of him, but I dislike him very much.”
“You are very frank,” said Marie, laughingly. “As Ethel is my dearest friend, I will tell you something—she does n’t like him either. There, is n’t that good news?”
“I have not seen as much of you as I have of Miss Ethel, but it is my misfortune.”
“Yes,” said Hugh, reflectively, “but tell me, do not girls sometimes marry men whom they very much dislike?”
“I don’t believe so,” replied Marie, with girlish frankness, as she looked at Hugh with her innocent blue eyes. “I wouldn’t, I’m quite sure.”
“Oh, would n’t you?” quizzed Hugh, jestingly. “That is because you are a genius, and gifted people may do as they like.”
“You must not speak that way,” said the girl, chidingly. “It is not candid, and I want to believe everything you say.” There was a message unconsciously sent from Marie’s eyes as she spoke.
“Perhaps I was partially jesting,” said Hugh.
“Do you know why I told you about Ethel?” asked Marie, later in the evening, when Hugh was preparing to go.