she was so charming that I felt flattered by her interest, I was not
pleased when I remembered my interview with her.
"You are not at all like your brother," I said, glancing in her face
with frankness.
"No?" she said smilingly, and looking attentively at me with an
expression which I did not understand.
And then she drew me on to speak of all his features, which I did with
the utmost candor, showing great knowledge of the subject.
"And you," she said, "you do not look at all as I supposed. You are not
nearly so young--Richard told me you were quite a child. I was not
prepared for this grace; this young ladyhood--'cette taille de
palmier,'" she added, with a little sweep of the hand.
Somehow I was not pleased to feel that Richard had talked of me to her,
though I liked it that he had talked of her to me. No doubt she saw it,
for I was lamentably transparent. "Do you lead a quiet life, or have you
many friends?" she said, as if she did not know exactly the kind of
life I led, and as if she had not come for the express purpose of
helping me out of it, at the instance of her kindly brother. Then, of
course, I told her all about my dull days, and she pitied me, and said
lightly it must not be, and I must see more of the world, and she, for
her part, must know me better, etc., etc. And then she went away.
In a few days, I went with Ann Coddle, in a carriage, to return the
visit. The house was small, but in a beautiful, bright street, and the
one window near the door was full of ferns and ivies. I did not get in,
which was a disappointment to me, particularly as I had no printed card,
and realized keenly all the ignominy of leaving one in writing. This was
in April, and I saw no more of my new friend. Richard was away, on some
business of the firm, and the days were very dull indeed.
In May he came back, and resumed the dinners, and the evenings in the
parlor, though not quite with the frequency of the past winter,--and I
think there was the least shade of constraint in his manner. It was on
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