“A vampire!” muttered her sister.
“What I cannot bear,” observed Lady Selina, “is the art with which she conceals her designs. Smooth above, false beneath—wearing a mask of such perfect innocence, that she would take in any one who was unaccustomed to the ways of the world. I confess,” she added, in a tone of self-depreciation, “that I was deceived myself by her manner.”
“Oh! if she’s artful, I shall hate her,” exclaimed Vincent; “I can’t endure anything sly.”
“And so hypocritical,” chimed in Louisa; “she would pass herself off for such a saint. I believe that poor dear mademoiselle’s grand offence was liking a French book that was a little witty—a book which Mrs. Effingham unluckily hit upon when she came spying into our school-room in her fawning, hypocritical manner.”
“And to bring in such an ally to support her, before she dared let us know what she had done.”
“Yes,” said Lady Selina, “I am perfectly convinced—and I am one not often mistaken—that the arrival of Captain Thistlewood was a preconcerted arrangement.”
“Captain Thistlewood—who may he be?” inquired Vincent.
“Mrs. Effingham’s uncle,” replied Louisa. “The funniest old quiz—”
“The most blustering savage—”
“A low, vulgar fellow,” joined in Lady Selina; “one who thinks that he may swagger in a gentleman’s house as if he were on the deck of a whaler.”