'And I, Marie, too, liked you better than any other girl I ever met. Of course, I can see how things are. You and I are friends, no matter how short a time we have known each other.'
The girls turned into the house, and sought Marie's room.
'I am dull and stupid. But I have a sister at home who is more lively. You would not think we are related so closely.' She put her arms round the girl, and continued, 'I love George, Marie, with all my heart, and it would break my heart if anything went wrong with him. I think it would kill me if anything went wrong with him now. Tell me, dear--for you see I know how matters are--is anything settled yet?'
'But, Marie, I am likely to have another, a second sister?'
'I want anything that is good for George.'
'And you don't think you'd dislike me when you know me better?'
'Then I'll tell him when he comes home from that horrid Preraphaelite Club, or whatever you call it, to which I've sent him. I'll tell him.'
'That--that,' she threw her arms around Kate's neck, and buried her face in Kate's bosom, 'that you want me for a sister, and that I want you for a sister, oh, so badly, so badly!'--she wept passionately for a moment. She sobbed in a few minutes--'and then maybe he'll not go to any of those awful places with that dreadful Mr Nevill again. Kate, I'll try to keep him away, and make him do all your good self would wish. Don't blame me for what happened to-day. I shall feel wretched until I see him again.'
Mr Wilfrid Parkinson was a dapper, good-looking, sleek-faced man, of six-and-thirty years of age. He scaled light, and was nimble in all his movements. He had a neat intelligent forehead, neat delicate hands, was always clad in cloth of faultless fit, relieved by linen of snowy whiteness. It was easy to mistake him for a clergyman.
To judge by his face and manner, you would think he had a ready intellect always well under control. Had he been a barrister, you would have felt quite sure he would not go into court without having thoroughly made up his case. Had he been a physician, you would have felt certain he would not let his patient sink beyond his skill without asking for assistance. Had he been a clergyman, you would have counted on his orthodoxy from the mere evidence of his general appearance. It was an utterly unspeculative, safe, small head. All the lines in it were acute and true. There was no speculation in the eye; no weight of creative faculty in the brow; no driving power in the poll. It was the head of an artificer in thought, not of an architect of theories. It was the head of a lapidary, not of a pearl-diver.