“My dear Pel, how can you say such a thing!” broke in his wife, indignantly. “Don’t be stuffing the child’s head with such dry rubbish, but just look at this.” And Mrs. Brande, who had risen, solemnly walked over and held out a photograph of a girl, and said, “Look here, P.; never mind your missionary talk, but tell me what you think of that? Who do you think she is?”
“An angel to look at, at any rate,” was the emphatic reply.
“Yes, did you ever see so perfect a face? Well, she is your own niece—Fairy Gordon?”
Yes, it was indeed Fairy—an exquisite picture of her: soft, posée, touched up, showing the best side of Fairy’s face—with Fairy’s best expression.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Brande, turning to Honor, “I would not exchange you for anybody, but she is the beauty of the family, and no two words about it. Eh, P.?”
“Beautiful indeed,” he assented; “but I prefer Honor’s bright little phiz and big inquiring eyes.”
He was a judge of countenance, and even a flattering photograph could not deceive him; there was a cruel pinched expression about the beauty’s lips.
“Come and look at this, Mr. Jervis,” cried the proud aunt. “Is she not lovely?”
“Yes ... lovely,” he responded. She was undoubtedly “the pretty one,” though he secretly agreed with Mr. Brande.
“I wonder what Mrs. Langrishe would say to her—eh? Eh, Honor?”