He didn't say much, but then I knew perfectly well that
he would be on his guard not to commit himself by words. But I've
got him to promise that he'll write to me, and of course I'll
answer in such a way that he must write again. I know he'll want to
see me, and I think I can go very near doing it. But he's an old
stager and knows what he's about: and of course there'll be ever so
many people to tell him I'm not the sort of girl he ought to marry.
He'll hear about Colonel de B--, and Sir C. D--, and Lord E. F--,
and there are ever so many chances against me. But I've made up my
mind to try it. It's taking the long odds. I can hardly expect to
win, but if I do pull it off I'm made for ever!" A daughter can
hardly say all that to her mother. Even Arabella Trefoil could not
say it to her mother,--or, at any rate, she would not. "What a
question that is to ask, mamma?" she did say tossing her head.
"Well, my dear, unless you tell me something how can I help you?"
"I don't know that I want you to help me,--at any rate not in that
way."
"In what way?"
"Oh, mamma, you are so odd."
"Has he said anything?"
"Yes, he has. He said he liked dry champagne and that he never ate
supper."
"If you won't tell me how things are going you may fight your own
battles by yourself."
"That's just what I must do.
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