“I shouldn’t like to be a poor relation of Mrs. Merrick’s,” Geoffrey observed. “An ugly woman,” he went on, adding, “The niece doesn’t look provincial.”
“No; oddly she doesn’t; not physically; but provincial in soul I should think. A curious little face, Geoffrey; ignorant, empty of all but a shallow joy in life. It hasn’t suffered, isn’t capable of much suffering. She looks like a soulless, sylvan creature; mocking, elusive, alluring.”
Geoffrey passed over the question of soul and body, reflecting that it was natural that Angela should show this funny spite. Maurice was clearly allured.
“Her dress isn’t provincial either,” he said; “its simplicity is extremely sophisticated. The dryad has found a dressmaker in her woods. She is a young lady who knows, at all events, how to dress.”
“And how to eat,” mused Angela. “Dear child, it’s really delightful to see such frank enjoyment of opportunity. That is her fourth sandwich.”
“I beg your pardon, it is her fifth.”
“You share Maurice’s interest.”
“Is Maurice so interested?”
“Isn’t he?”
“While I automatically count her sandwiches he meditates making a sketch of her.”