"
"What did you tell him about me--your uncle?" asked Serena,
pettishly.
"That you were my friend, and that we read together"----
"Oh, of course! What else?"
Ivy faltered.
"I explained who you were."
"That I had a ridiculous name, and was the daughter of silly
people!"
"Oh, it _is_ unkind of you!"
"Well, and what else? I insist on knowing, Ivy."
"Indeed, I didn't say one word that you mightn't have heard
yourself. I think you can believe me, dear?"
"To be sure I can. But then no doubt your father told him the rest,
or has done by this time. There's no harm in that. I like people to
know that I am independent. Well, now tell me about _him_. He isn't
a great favourite of yours, is he?"
"No, not a great favourite." Ivy seemed always to weigh her words.
"I don't know him very well. He has always lived in London, and I've
never seen him more than once a year. I'm afraid he doesn't care
much about the things that I prize most, but he is kind and very
clever, I believe. Father always says he might have been a great
artist if he had chosen."
"Then why didn't he choose?"
"I can't say. So many people seem to fall far short of what they
might have been."
"Women do--what else can you expect? But men are free. I suppose
he is rich?"
"No, not rich. He seems to have enough for his needs."
Serena indulged her thoughts.
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