One afternoon, when she and her sister were leaning against the bulwarks watching the deep green water, and sheets of lace-like foam that fell away from the steamer’s bows, they began to discuss their charge with bated breath.
“I cannot imagine what has happened to George Holroyd,” exclaimed Mrs. Calvert. “How can he call her a simple little country girl?” glancing across at Belle.
“Yes,” returned her sister, “he must be very blindly in love, if he supposes her to be but nineteen.”
“She looks quite ten years older—nearly as old as I am,” said Mrs. Calvert.
“And so she is,” replied Miss Gay. “I heard her talking of being at Ascot on a Cup day, and some one said, ‘Why that horse ran eleven years ago.’ She seemed so vexed, and said that she was taken by her mother when she was quite a little girl in short petticoats.”
“I shall be truly thankful when this voyage is over! We have had fine weather certainly, but what storms—my nerves, I know, have all gone to pieces, but sometimes, Rosie, I tremble all over!”
“Now that she and Miss Cox don’t speak it is better,” said her sister consolingly.
“But Miss Cox’s friends have all cut her, and so have several people. Oh! I little knew what I was undertaking,” rejoined Mrs. Calvert with a groan.
“I wonder whether Mr. Holroyd knows what he is undertaking?”
“Poor fellow! I am sure he has no suspicion of her temper—I wish you had seen the letter he wrote to me about his pretty inexperienced young bride.”