“Sacrificing herself? Conceited man! Do you weigh yourself against half-a-dozen curates—reinforced by tea and sandwiches?”
“Mary likes our rides immensely—and I never saw any signs of a fondness for curates.”
“No, but a fondness for Mrs. Grier, almshouses, tea, curates, and the Lady Bountiful atmosphere combined.”
Perior looked absently out of the window; presently he said, “I don’t think she is looking over well—you know her father died of consumption.”
“Don’t; he was my uncle!” Camelia exclaimed. “Still, my chest is as sound as a drum.” She gave it a reassuring thump.
“That must be very comforting to you, personally, but is Mary’s?”
She looked at him candidly.
“You foolish, fussy old person! Mary is solidly, stolidly well; who could associate the lilies and languors of illness with Mary? You are trying to poetize Mary’s prose to worry me, but you can’t rhyme it, I assure you.”
“I don’t know about that!” Perior was again, for a moment, silent. “I don’t think Mary has a very gay time of it,” he said, speaking with a half nervous resolution, as though he had often wished to speak and kept back the words. “She doesn’t go out much with you in London, does she?”
Camelia did not like his tone, but she replied with lightness, “Not much, Mary is a home-keeping body. She is not exactly fitted for worldly gaieties, and she understands it perfectly.”