“Towards—shall I?—Georgiana.” Mr. Lammle uttered the name, with a delicate curve of his right hand, from his lips outward. “For never have I known Sophronia (who is not apt to take sudden likings) so attracted and so captivated as she is by—shall I once more?—Georgiana.”
The object of this homage sat uneasily enough in receipt of it, and then said, turning to Mrs. Lammle, much embarrassed:
“I wonder what you like me for! I am sure I can’t think.”
“Dearest Georgiana, for yourself. For your difference from all around you.”
“Well! That may be. For I think I like you for your difference from all around me,” said Georgiana with a smile of relief.
“We must be going with the rest,” observed Mrs. Lammle, rising with a show of unwillingness, amidst a general dispersal. “We are real friends, Georgiana dear?”
“Real.”
“Good night, dear girl!”
She had established an attraction over the shrinking nature upon which her smiling eyes were fixed, for Georgiana held her hand while she answered in a secret and half-frightened tone:
“Don’t forget me when you are gone away. And come again soon. Good night!”
Charming to see Mr. and Mrs. Lammle taking leave so gracefully, and going down the stairs so lovingly and sweetly. Not quite so charming to see their smiling faces fall and brood as they dropped moodily into separate corners of their little carriage. But to be sure that was a sight