"Can you tell me who that gentleman sitting next to my sister is?" I ask Mr. Vasher.
"Silvestre of Melton. Do you like his looks?"
"He seems good-tempered," I say, smiling, "and he is very amusing to listen to. His ideas seem to sprawl all over the place, and he requires his companion to pick them up and put them before his eyes in a recognizable form! Is he not very lazy?"
"Very," he says; and are not you rather sarcastic?"
"Sarcastic!" I repeat, staring. "Where could I have possibly picked up that trick? I only watch people, you know."
"And some day you will turn my character inside out, and hold it up for me to look at," says Paul.
"If you cannot hold your own against a village maid, I am sorry for you!" I say slyly. "Does it not seem droll that Miss Fleming and you and I should all have met together again here?
It reminds one of the witches' meetings in Macbeth—does it not you?"
"Only I trust we shall not work such disasters as they did?" he says laughing. "Do you know that I was in such a hurry to get back to Silverbridge, that I only came here intending to remain until Wednesday, but now I shall stay."
"So he loves her still," I say to myself, glancing at Silvia.
"Will you be glad or sorry?" he says, looking at me.
"I am glad you are going to stay," I say, "very glad. I will even, if you like, play gooseberry for you. There!"
I have made another mistake. He never knew till this moment that I knew he was in love with Silvia. Having made the observation, however, I will not attempt to eat it: telling stories is so painful and hard, one had need to be so clever to fib successfully; and I never was clever, thank heaven!
"Gooseberry!" he says, with a swift amused gleam in his eyes; "for me and whom?"
