We Quarrel
During the first days of my stay at the Terrace, Graham never took a seat near me, or in his frequent pacing of the room approached the quarter where I sat, or looked preoccupied, or more grave than usual, but I thought of Miss Fanshawe and expected her name to leap from his lips. I kept my ear and mind in perpetual readiness for the tender theme; my patience was ordered to be permanently under arms, and my sympathy desired to keep its cornucopia replenished and ready for outpouring. At last, and after a little inward struggle, which I saw and respected, he one day launched into the topic. It was introduced delicately; anonymously as it were.
“Your friend is spending her vacation in travelling, I hear?”
“Friend, forsooth!” thought I to myself: but it would not do to contradict; he must have his own way; I must own the soft impeachment: friend let it be. Still, by way of experiment, I could not help asking whom he meant?
He had taken a seat at my worktable; he now laid hands on a reel of thread which he proceeded recklessly to unwind.
“Ginevra—Miss Fanshawe, has accompanied the Cholmondeleys on a tour through the south of France?”
“She has.”
“Do you and she correspond?”
“It will astonish you to hear that I never once thought of making application for that privilege.”
“You have seen letters of her writing?”
“Yes; several to her uncle.”
“They will not be deficient in wit and naivete; there is so much sparkle, and so little art in her soul?”