“Come, tell us what has been going on in Shirani.”
“We are all on the qui vive for the bachelors’ ball; heaps of people are coming to it,” said Miss Valpy.
“Bachelors, I hope?” put in Mr. Brande, briskly.
“Yes; it is to be on the eighth.”
“I hope that our dresses have arrived,” said Honor, anxiously.
“I think I can relieve your mind,” rejoined Mrs. Sladen; “there is a large new deal box in the back verandah that looks very like dresses. But poor Mrs. Curtice! The cart that was bringing up her boxes went over the broken bridge into the river-bed, and all her new frocks are in a state of pulp!”
“Who is Mrs. Curtice?” inquired Honor. “A new-comer?”
“Yes; an elderly youngerly bunchy person,” responded Miss Valpy. “She reminds me exactly of an old Java sparrow! She would look the same, no matter what she wore.”
Mr. Brande, the only gentleman present, put up his eye-glass and gazed at the young lady meditatively.
“Any more news?” continued his insatiable wife.