“But I don’t know of anything that I dislike;” she said thoughtfully—“perhaps I don’t like England; I am not sure, though. I had a pretty good time there after all—only you know, being in mourning was so stupid. And then, too, I didn’t fit into their ideas. I really didn’t seem to get the true inwardness of what was expected of me. Oh, I never dared let them know at home what a failure I was as an Englishwoman. I mortified my husband’s sisters all the time. Just think—after a whole year I often forgot to say ‘Fancy now!’ and used to say ‘Good gracious!’ instead.”
Jack laughed.
“My husband’s sisters were very unhappy about it. They did want to love me, because I had so much money; but it was tough work for them. Did you ever know any middle-aged English young ladies?” she asked him suddenly.
“No, I never did,” he said.
“Really, they seem to be a thing apart that can’t grow anywhere but in England. Every married man has not less than two, nor more than three, and they always are a little gray and embroider very nicely. Someone told me that as long as there’s any hope they wear stout boots and walk about and hunt, but as soon as it’s hopeless they take to embroidering.”
“It must be rather a blue day for them when they decide definitely to make the change,” said Jack.
“I never thought of that,” said Mrs. Rosscott soberly. “Of course it must! I was always very good to them. I gave them ever so many things that I could have used longer myself, and they used to set pieces of muslin in behind the open-work places and wear them.”
She sighed.
“It’s quite as bad as being a Girton girl,” she said. “Do you know what a Girton girl is?”
“No, I don’t.”