Dudley Deverell had witnessed the scene with a mixture of dismay and amusement. What a dangerous young woman. She seemed to have a knack of dropping bomb-shells into people’s laps! The very same evening she surpassed her previous effects. She was looking on at a game of roulette—indeed, she was actually playing, and occasionally placing a timid shilling here and there (as no knowledge or practice is required). Suddenly Lady Boxhill announced—
“Well, now I’m going to plunge and put a sovereign on my age!” And she surveyed the circle with her crafty, made-up old eyes.
“But you can’t do that! How can you?” remonstrated Joseline, in her soft, sonorous tone. “Your age is not on the board within twenty years. Why, the highest is thirty-eight.”
Joseline’s protest and faux pas were immediately drowned in a loud buzz, and she felt herself severely pinched by Tito. The miserable girl had made another enemy, and Lady Boxhill in future spoke of her as “that fearful Yahoo,” and snubbed her ruthlessly whenever it lay in her power.
“The fearful Yahoo” was painfully sensitive. She knew that she was unpopular, and was quick-witted in her own unpolished fashion. She caught stealthy looks and smiles exchanged on her account. Lady Mulgrave frankly ignored her (unless she found occasion to exhibit her as a curiosity). Dudley held aloof, in chilling disapproval; he was a coward, and ashamed to be identified with the public laughing-stock, whose ignorance of the social code was displayed at every turn. Sir Harry Coxford, however, paid her many stupid compliments; Colonel Wildairs assumed bluff, fatherly airs. Yes, these two were her friends; but Teddy Boltover was stolidly rude, and the Prince pursued her with detestable attentions; he brought his face so close to hers when he addressed her, and surveyed her with such a detestable expression that she hated him.
Naturally, Joseline was gregarious and fond of life and company; had she not for many years been “Mary of the Corner,” accustomed to continual homage, and acclamation? Better be a success in a cottage, than a failure in a castle! Gradually she withdrew into her own company; she went for long walks with Rap, or sat up in her little boudoir, keeping the fire warm as she crouched over it, meditating on her many blunders and the hostility, or indifference of her associates. She did not play bridge, she disliked motoring, she had no friends or tastes in common with the party, nor any claim to be remembered or considered; her heart was filled with bitterness and revolt. Oh, if her father were at home!—never, never again would she remain behind alone as an experiment, and for the sole benefit of her education.
But her enemies within the gate had a strong case against Joseline, and Lady Boxhill voiced the sentiments of her friends when she said—
“Did you ever notice the way that girl sits huddled over the fire on a low stool, as if she were still in her kitchen? What a frightful trial to poor Lottie! She plants her elbows on the table, her hands on her hips, she pushes before people, and in her clumsy haste to be obliging she gets flustered, drops things, falls over footstools, and treads on every one’s toes.”
“Yes,” put in Lady Towton, “and asks such odd questions; and I declare her scarlet blushes, are positively indecent.”
Alas! Poor Joseline was, in some respects, an Ishmaelite; her hand against her associates, and their hands against her.