“I do not think so,” rejoined the lady with the bellows, stoutly.
“No; I should be surprised if you did. You are so sympathetic and energetic. You throw yourself heart and soul into Dorcas meetings, bazaars, nurse-tending, and other people’s joys or afflictions. Now, my sympathies and energies rarely extend beyond Granby and myself. I am becoming torpid. I can scarcely get up the steam for a ball; even the prospect of cutting out old Mother Brande fails to rouse me. However, when I have a charming niece to marry—and to marry well—things will assume a different aspect. How amusing it will be to eclipse the other girls and their scheming mothers; how gratifying to see all the best partis in the place grovelling at her feet! Her triumphs will be mine.” And Mrs. Langrishe slowly closed her heavy eyelids, and appeared—judging from her expression—to be wrapped in some beatific vision. From this delicious contemplation she was abruptly recalled by the prosaic question—
“How old is she?”
“Let me see—dear, dear me! Yes,” sitting erect and opening her fine eyes to their widest extent, “why, strictly between ourselves, she must be twenty-six. How time flies! She is my eldest brother’s daughter, one of a large family. Fanny, my sister in Calcutta, had her out eighteen months ago, and now she is obliged to go home, and wants to hand Lalla over to me.”
“I understand,” assented her listener, with a sagacious nod.
“Can you also understand, that, simply because Fanny and I have no children of our own, our people seem to expect us to provide for their olive-branches? I don’t quite see it myself, though I do send them my old dresses. Now let me read you my letter,” unfolding it as she spoke.
“450, Chowringhee, Feb. 22nd.
“Dearest Ida,
“The doctors here say that Richard must positively go home at once. He has been out too long, and it is quite time that another member of the firm took a turn in the East. He has been working hard, and it is essential for him to have a complete holiday; and I must accompany him—a step for which I was quite unprepared. I have taken a house at Simla for the season—that I can easily relet and get off my hands; but what am I to do with dear little Lalla?
“The poor child only came out last cold weather year, and cannot endure the idea of leaving India—and no wonder, with any number of admirers, and a box of new dresses just landed by the mail steamer! I had intended giving her such a gay season, and sending Dick home alone; but now all my nice little schemes have been knocked on the head—how soon a few days, even a few hours, out here alters all one’s plans! And now to come to the gist of my letter—will you take Lalla? I would not trust her with any one but her own aunt, though I know that Mrs. Monty-Kute is dying to have her. You will find her a most amusing companion; no one could be dull with Lalla in the house. She is a pretty girl, and will do you credit, and is certain to be the belle of the place. She has rather a nice little voice, plays the banjo and guitar, and dances like a professional. As to her disposition, nothing in this world is capable of ruffling her serene temper—I cannot think who she takes after, for it is not a family trait—I have never once seen her put out, and that is more than can be said for a girl in a thousand. In fact, she is a girl in a thousand. I can send her to you with a lovely outfit, a new habit and saddle, and her pony, if you wish. I am sure, dear, you will receive her if you can possibly manage it; and do your best to get her well settled, for you know poor Eustace has Charlotte and Sophy now quite grown up; even May is eighteen. You are so clever, so popular, so full of sense, dearest Ida—so superior to my stupid self—that if you do consent to take Lalla under your wing, her fortune is practically made. We have engaged passages in the Paramatta, which sails on the twelfth, so write by return of post to