I'm sure, when I think of the last
generation of Devereuxes, I wonder so many of us have been tough enough
to weather the dangerous age; and there had been an alarm or two about
Rotherwood himself. Well, he was very good, half from obedience, half
from being convinced that it would be a selfish thing, and especially
from being wholly convinced that Phyl's feelings were not stirred.
That was the way I came to know about it, for papa took me out for a
drive in the old gig to ask what I thought about her heart, and I could
truly and honestly say she had never found it, cared for Rotherwood
just as she did for Reggie, and was not the sort to think whether a man
was attentive to her. Besides, she was eighteen, and he thirty-one,
and she thought him venerable. I believe, if he had asked her then,
she might have taken him (because Cousin Rotherwood wished it), but she
would have had to fall in love in the second place instead of the
first. Well, he was very good, poor old fellow, except that by way of
taking himself off, and diverting his mind, he went dear-stalking with
such unnecessary vehemence that a Scotch mist was very nearly the death
of him, and he discovered that he had as many lungs as other people.
If you could only have seen our dear old father then, how distressed
and how guilty he felt, and how he used to watch Phyllis, and examine
Alethea and me as to whether she seemed more than reasonably concerned
for Rotherwood had come and hit the right nail on the head he might
have carried her off.
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