“What people can be at some times they can’t be at others,” said Arbell. “Is it not so, Mrs. Cheerlove?”
“Yes, my love, sometimes.”
“Thank you for calling me ‘my love.’”
“By-the-by, why do they abbreviate your name into Arbell?”
“Because an ugly name is good enough for an ugly girl,” said Arbell, quickly; and then, with a little self-reproach for so captious a speech, “No, the real reason is, because it is the abbreviation by which the celebrated Lady Arabella Stuart was called by her grandmother, the old Countess of Shrewsbury. Mamma read about her in Miss Strickland’s “Queens,” I believe, and so took a fancy to call me Arbell.”
“Though you do not like it.”
“I like whatever mamma likes, almost.”
“I am very glad to hear you say so, my love. Are you hungry?”
She looked at me artlessly, and said, “I should like a slice of bread-and-butter.”
“Or jam?” said I.