"And then?"
Lucia's face, which had been overcast with care, was now radiant.
"Then I should have done something for him besides making him
miserable. Will you ask him, Kitty?"
"You're a fool, Lucy, and I'm another. But I'll ask him. To-morrow,
though; not to-day."
She waited to see what to-morrow would bring forth, for she was
certain it would bring forth something.
It brought forth glorious weather after the east wind, a warm languid
day, half spring, half summer. Lucia and Kitty seemed bent on putting
all idea of business out of their guest's head. In the morning they
drove about the country. In the afternoon they all sat out in the
south square under the windows of the morning-room, while Lucia talked
to him about his tragedies. Kitty still held her invitation in
reserve.
At last she left them to themselves. It was Lucia who first returned
to the subject of dispute. She had some sewing in her lap which gave
her the advantage of being able to talk in a calm, detached manner and
without looking up. He sat near her, watching with delight the quiet
movements of her hands.
"I've been thinking over what you said yesterday," said she. "I can't
do what you want; but I can suggest a compromise. You seem determined
on restitution. Have you forgotten that you once offered it me in
another form?"
"You refused it in that form--then."
"I wouldn't refuse it now. If you could be content with that.
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