But the more she was conscious of her own attachment, the less could she bear to have it made a perpetual subject of doubt. It was one very hot morning—for the summer had been unusually warm and long—that they were standing on a terrace which ran on the shady side of the house. They were walking up and down a little to Arthur's discontent, for he had been asking her to ride, which Edith refused on account of the extreme heat. She was herself in such gay spirits. Her father had just surprised her, and such surprises are very agreeable, by a set of turquoises, and she was convinced herself, and wanted to convince everybody else, that blue was the loveliest colour in the world. "It is the colour of the sky, of violets,"—"and," interrupted Arthur, "as Captain Delaford would say, of your eyes. I am sure that is just one of his pretty speeches." "Not quite," replied Edith; "you have a scowl where he has a smile—and you ought to put on an irresistible air while speaking." "An irresistible air" exclaimed Arthur. "So you think him irresistible" "At least our whole town does, and you would not have me opposed to general opinion. You know what an enemy you are to singularity in our sex." Arthur made no answer, but amused himself with picking off the heads of divers unoffending flowers. Edith began a curious examination of a bunch of Provence roses, which she held in her hand. Her own sweet mouth, with the smile dimpling round it, was like one of the buds, when the soft red first breaks through the green envelope. "But, at least," said Arthur, "you will not dance with Captain Delaford. I make a point of your not doing it." Now Ralegh was very wrong to make a point of any such trifle. It set the whole spirit of feminine insubordination up in arms. Besides, this very jealousy was an angry subject with Edith. She felt herself unworthily judged—and, moreover, her taste called in question. The very idea that she could think of such a man for one moment—she who quite piqued herself on having such an ideal standard of perfection—it was such a bad compliment. Captain Delaford all smiles, sighs, and douceurs to every lady he came near; he who cut out all his conversation by a pattern—well, it was too provoking! Had Arthur chosen to be jealous of the Colonel, who was pale and silent—therefore set down as having had an unhappy passion, and "so interesting;"— or even the young ensign, who was such a sweet poet, and had written some exquisite verses in her album, about moonlight, and blighted affection—either of these would have been some credit. But Captain Delaford—the singing, flirting, universal Captain Delaford—it was really too bad!
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