Women are persistently imitative. No sooner did a thought flash through Cytherea’s mind that the man was a lover than she became a Miss Aldclyffe in a mild form. ‘I imagine he’s a lover,’ she said. Miss Hinton smiled a smile of experience in that line. Few women, if taxed with having an admirer, are so free from vanity as to deny the impeachment, even if it is utterly untrue. When it does happen to be true, they look pityingly away from the person who is so benighted as to have got no further than suspecting it. ‘There now--Miss Hinton; you are engaged to be married!’ said Cytherea accusingly. Adelaide nodded her head practically. ‘Well, yes, I am,’ she said. The word ‘engaged’ had no sooner passed Cytherea’s lips than the sound of it--the mere sound of her own lips--carried her mind to the time and circumstances under which Miss Aldclyffe had used it towards herself. A sickening thought followed--based but on a mere surmise; yet its presence took every other idea away from Cytherea’s mind. Miss Hinton had used Edward’s words about towns; she mentioned Mr. Springrove as attending to her garden. It could not be that Edward was the man! that Miss Aldclyffe had planned to reveal her rival thus! ‘Are you going to be married soon?’ she inquired, with a steadiness the result of a sort of fascination, but apparently of indifference. ‘Not very soon--still, soon.’ ‘Ah-ha! In less than three months?’ said Cytherea. ‘Two.’ Now that the subject was well in hand, Adelaide wanted no more prompting. ‘You won’t tell anybody if I show you something?’ she said, with eager mystery. ‘O no, nobody. But does he live in this parish?’ ‘No.’ Nothing proved yet. ‘What’s his name?’ said Cytherea flatly. Her breath and heart had begun their old tricks, and came and went hotly. Miss Hinton could not see her face. ‘What do you think?’ said Miss Hinton. ‘George?’ said Cytherea, with deceitful agony. ‘No,’ said Adelaide. ‘But now, you shall see him first; come here;’ and she led the way upstairs into her bedroom. There, standing on the dressing table in a little frame, was the unconscious portrait of Edward Springrove. ‘There he is,’ Miss Hinton said, and a silence ensued. ‘Are you very fond of him?’ continued the miserable Cytherea at length. ‘Yes, of course I am,’ her companion replied, but in the tone of one who ‘lived in Abraham’s bosom all the year,’ and was therefore untouched by solemn thought at the fact. ‘He’s my cousin--a native of this village. We were engaged before my father’s death left me so lonely. I was only twenty, and a much greater belle than I am now. We know each other thoroughly, as you may imagine. I give him a little sermonizing now and then.’ ‘Why?’ ‘O, it’s only in fun. He’s very naughty sometimes--not really, you know--but he will look at any pretty face when he sees it.’