“Time!”—springing to her feet—“and talking of time, I must be off. Ring the bell, my dear boy, and order the car at once.”
Miss Morven had been dining at the Manor. She had endured a long, leaden evening playing draughts with her Aunt Bella; she played so carelessly that Bella had repeatedly huffed her, and eventually won with six kings to the good! After their niece’s departure, the sisters were for once unanimous in their opinion: they had never seen Aurea looking so well, as that night.
“What a rose-blush complexion, what clear, glowing eyes!” said Susan, with enthusiasm.
“Yes,” agreed Miss Parrett, who was putting away the draught-board, “she’s got my skin, and her mother’s eyes. I’ve often been asked if I were painted!” she announced, with serene complacency.
Susan felt inclined to say, “And were you?” but her courage failed her. Bella could never see a joke! She had no recollection of Bella’s beauty—Bella’s complexion, as long as she could remember it, had been the colour of mutton fat—but Bella was twenty-five years her senior—and no doubt her bloom had withered early.
“The girl looks to me—as if—as if——”
“Bertie Woolcock had proposed!” supplemented Bella. “Yes, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“No—not that.”
“Then what?” snapped her sister. “As if—and you stop; it’s a dreadful habit not to be able to finish a sentence—it shows a weak intellect.”