“Oh, yes, to be sure, Mr. Lenox; very likely not,” was Miss Blake’s comment, in a tone of indifferent recollection.
“He comes here very often, almost every night, in fact,” remarked Mrs. Carling, looking up sideways at her sister’s back.
“Now that you mention it,” said Mary dryly, “I have noticed something of the sort myself.”
“Do you think he ought to?” asked her sister, after a moment of silence.
“Why not?” said the girl, turning to her questioner for the first time. “And why should I think he should or should not? Doesn’t he come to see Julius, and on Julius’s invitation? I have never asked him—but once,” she said, flushing a little as she recalled the occasion and the wording of the invitation.
“Do you think,” returned Mrs. Carling, “that his visits are wholly on Julius’s account, and that he would come so often if there were no other inducement? You know,” she continued, pressing her point timidly but persistently, “he always stays after we go upstairs if you are at home, and I have noticed that when you are out he always goes before our time for retiring.”
“I should say,” was the rejoinder, “that that was very much the proper thing. Whether or not he comes here too often is not for me to say—I have no opinion on the subject. But, to do him justice, he is about the last man to wait for a tacit dismissal, or to cause you and Julius to depart from what he knows to be your regular habit out of politeness to him. He is a person of too much delicacy and good breeding to stay when—if—that is to say—” She turned again to the window without completing her sentence, and, though Mrs. Carling thought she could complete it for her, she wisely forbore. After a moment of silence, Mary said in a voice devoid of any traces of confusion:
“You asked me if I thought Mr. Lenox would come so often if there were no object in his coming except to see Julius. I can only say that if Julius were out of the question I think he would come here but seldom; but,” she added, as she left the window and resumed her seat, “I do not quite see the object of this discussion, and, indeed, I am not quite sure of what we are discussing. Do you object,” she asked, looking curiously at her sister and smiling slightly, “to Mr. Lenox’s coming here as he does, and if so, why?” This was apparently more direct than Mrs. Carling was quite prepared for. “And if you do,” Mary proceeded, “what is to be done about it? Am I to make him understand that it is not considered the proper thing? or will you? or shall we leave it to Julius?”
Mrs. Carling looked up into her sister’s face, in which was a smile of amused penetration, and looked down again in visible embarrassment.
The young woman laughed as she shook her finger at her.
“Oh, you transparent goose!” she cried. “What did he say?”
“What did who say?” was the evasive response.
“Julius,” said Mary, putting her finger under her sister’s chin and raising her face. “Tell me now. You’ve been talking with him, and I insist upon knowing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So there!”
“Well,” she admitted hesitatingly, “I said to him something like what I have to you, that it seemed to me that Mr. Lenox came very often, and that I did not believe it was all on his account, and that he” (won’t somebody please invent another pronoun?) “always stayed when you were at home—”
“—and,” broke in her sister, “that you were afraid my young affections were being engaged, and that, after all, we didn’t know much if anything about the young man, or, perhaps, that he was forming a hopeless attachment, and so on.”
“No,” said Mrs. Carling, “I didn’t say that exactly. I—”
“Didn’t you, really?” said Mary teasingly. “One ought to be explicit in such cases, don’t you think? Well, what did Julius say? Was he very much concerned?” Mrs. Carling’s face colored faintly under her sister’s raillery, and she gave a little embarrassed laugh.
“Come, now,” said the girl relentlessly, “what did he say?”
“Well,” answered Mrs. Carling, “I must admit that he said ‘Pooh!’ for one thing, and that you were your own mistress, and, so far as he had seen, you were very well qualified to manage your own affairs.”
Her sister clapped her hands. “Such discrimination have I not seen,” she exclaimed, “no, not in Israel! What else did he say?” she demanded, with a dramatic gesture. “Let us know the worst.”
Mrs. Carling laughed a little. “I don’t remember,” she admitted, “that he said anything more on the subject. He got into some perplexity about whether the steam should be off or on, and after that question was settled we went to bed.” Mary laughed outright.
“So Julius doesn’t think I need watching,” she said.
“Mary,” protested her sister in a hurt tone, “you don’t think I ever did or could watch you? I don’t want to pry into your secrets, dear,” and she looked up with tears in her eyes. The girl dropped on her knees beside her sister and put her arms about her neck.
“You precious old lamb!” she cried, “I know you don’t. You couldn’t pry into anybody’s secrets if you tried. You couldn’t even try. But I haven’t any, dear, and I’ll tell you every one of them, and, rather than see a tear in your dear eyes, I would tell John Lenox that I never wanted to see him again; and I don’t know what you have been thinking, but I haven’t thought so at all” (which last assertion made even Mrs. Carling laugh), “and I know that I have been teasing and horrid, and if you won’t put me in the closet I will be good and answer every question like a nice little girl.” Whereupon she gave her
