“Match!” cried my aunt, warmly, “I should think not. Why, all that we know of him is, that he comes from London, from which place he answered an advertisement that Thomas put in the papers for a clerk. I have no wish to say anything harsh of the young man; but he obliges me to think of what he is when he pays my daughter attention.” “I can’t make head or tail of him,” I answered. “I have frequently tried to get him to talk about Conny, but he always contrives to glide away from the subject.” “Yes, yes! he _is_ sly--I have always said he is sly.” “But, after all, aunt, what matters it if Mr. Curling _does_ admire Conny? People can only be prevented from touching--not from looking.” “Oh, Mr. Curling is welcome to admire,” replied my aunt, with pleasant disdain. “All that I want to be assured of is, that Conny doesn’t care about him.” “I don’t think she does; at least,” I added, with a twinge of jealousy, “she has never given me to understand by word or look that she cares a farthing for him. If I thought she did----” “What?” asked my aunt anxiously, seeing that I paused. “No matter,” I answered gloomily, folding my arms Lara-wise. “I hope, Charlie, you have no reason to fear she _does_ like that young man? If I really believed this to be the case, I should desire my husband to dismiss him at once. I wouldn’t have such a scandal--no! not to save my life.” “My dear aunt, it is you who make me suspicious. _I_ myself have heard and seen nothing. They don’t write to each other, I suppose?” “Write! I should think not!” “And they never meet each other alone?” “Certainly not.” “Then I hardly see that there is anything to fear. If Conny were in love with Curling--the mere idea puts me in a passion!--I say, if Conny were silly enough to waste her priceless affection on a fellow of that kind, you would soon find it out. Something or other would happen. Either she’d meet him alone and be seen, or one of their letters would be intercepted.” “Yes, the mere idea _is_ enough to put one in a passion. As to her meeting him alone or writing to him, that is out of the question. She is my child, and I can answer for her conduct.” “Oh, she tells her own story. She is deliciously artless and womanly, and inexpressibly pretty.” “She is as God made her,” said my aunt, meekly. “My father would be charmed with her. After a course of sophistication, such as you meet with among French women, such English simplicity, such quiet artless sweetness as Conny’s is a pure luxury.” “You and she get on very well together, don’t you?” “I should be very miserable if I thought she didn’t like me.” “You needn’t be,” answered my aunt, with a smiling nod, “for I know she does like you.” “Really!” I cried, with a dramatic start. “Why shouldn’t she?” and here she paid me a compliment I need not repeat.