“And where are you to forward them to him? Has he been confidential enough to tell you?”
“No; he said, if anything comes for me, keep it till you hear of me.”
“He affected mystery. I think he imagined it gave something of romance to him, though a more prosaic, worldly character, never existed.”
“I don’t agree with you, Florry. I think it was the worldliness was the affectation.”
Florence coloured deeply, but made no reply.
“And I’ll tell you why I am convinced of it. In the mention of anything heroic or daring, or in allusion to any trait of deep devotion or pathetic tenderness, his lip would tremble and his voice falter, and then catching himself, and evidently ashamed of his weakness, he would come out with some silly, or even heartless remark, as though to mask his confusion and give him time to recover himself!”
“I never noticed this,” said Florence, coldly. “Indeed, I must confess to a much less critical study of his character than you have bestowed on him.”
“You are unjust yourself. It was you first pointed out this trait in him to me.”
“I forget it, then, that’s all,” said she, captiously.
“Oh, I knew he was ashamed of being thought romantic.”
“I thought I had asked you to talk of something or somebody else, Milly. Let us, at least, select a topic we can think and speak on with some approach to agreement.”
Accustomed to bear with Florence’s impatience and her capricious humours as those of an invalid, Emily made no answer, but drew out her work from a basket and prepared to begin.
“You needn’t hope to make much progress with your embroidery, Milly. You’ll have no one to read out the Faust or the Winler Night’s Tale to-day.”
“Ah, that’s true, and Joseph won’t be here till Saturday,” said she sighing, “not to say that I don’t suspect he’ll have much time to bestow on reading aloud.”
“I thought you were going to say that he reads badly,” said Florry, with a forced laugh.
“Oh no, Florry, I like his reading very much indeed; particularly of Tennyson and Browning.”
“It is not so melodramatic as your friend Mr. Calvert’s; but, in my poor estimation, it is in much truer taste.”
“What a strange girl you are! Do you forget the evening you said, ‘I’ll not let Joseph read aloud any more; I detest to see him in any rivalry of which he has the worst?’”