“Mrs. Jedsley, why are you always so unkind to me?” Camelia asked, laughing. “I assure you that you may trust my balms. Mrs. Jedsley, I will wager you—do you ever bet?—that by to-morrow night the whole county-side will be singing my praises. I like people to sing my praises—I like to feel affection and sympathy about me; now Mr. Perior has been telling me that there is a distinct absence of these elements in my atmosphere. I begin to feel the vacuum myself. Won’t you help me to fill it—help my regeneration?—No, Mary, that is the wrong vase—how could I arrange flowers in that? On the stand, was it? The house-maid’s stupidity, then; and I bought together the stand and the proper vase to go with it. No; don’t take the stand back with you, you goosie! put it here. Now, Mrs. Jedsley,” she added, when Mary had once more departed, Perior having relieved her of the stand and carried it, not at all graciously, to Camelia, “tell me how I can best please every one most? You know them all so well—their pet pursuits, their pet hobbies. Mrs. Harley has orchids, of course; I shall immediately ask her to take me to the conservatory. And Mrs. Grier—that pensive little woman with the long, long nose—has she not a son at Oxford, a boy she dotes on? Isn’t she very fond of music?”
Mrs. Jedsley was stirring her third cup of tea with an entirely recovered composure. “Yes, Mrs. Grier plays the violin, and has a son she dotes on; if you flatter her nicely enough, she will certainly join in the ‘Hallelujah.’”
“Well, that is nice to know.” Mary had now brought the correct Japanese vase, and Camelia neatly trimmed from her branch while she spoke a few superfluous leaves and twigs.
“Is not Mrs. Grier a dear friend of Lady Henge’s?” Mrs. Fox-Darriel asked in an aside to Lady Paton—to the latter a very welcome aside, as in murmured acquiescence she found a momentary refuge from the bewildered sensations her daughter’s projects gave her.
Yes, Lady Henge and Mrs. Grier were great friends, both musical, both deeply interested in charitable work. Mrs. Grier, a sweet woman,—“and you know,” said Lady Paton, bending gently towards her guest, “her nose is not so long. That is only Camelia’s droll way of putting things, you know.”
“Oh, yes,”—Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s smile was very reassuring—“you and I understand Camelia, Lady Paton. It doesn’t do to take her au grand sérieux.” Indeed, Mrs. Fox-Darriel smiled inwardly, feeling that all disquiet on Camelia’s account was very unnecessary, and convinced that she knew her very thoroughly.
“You won’t be at home to-morrow, then?” asked Camelia, looking around from her vase as Mrs. Jedsley rose to go.
“No, my dear; and I’m afraid you won’t find me of use at any time. I haven’t any particular foibles. You won’t discover a handle about me by which to wind me up to the required musical pitch.”
“You traduce yourself, Mrs. Jedsley; with your charitable heart, do you mean to tell me that, were I to wrap Clievesbury in red flannel, fill it with buns and broth, you wouldn’t think me charming, and make sweet music in my ears?”
“I never denied that you were charming, balefully charming, you naughty girl,” said Mrs. Jedsley with a good humor that implied no submission.