“No,” pointedly. “I hope no more will be said. Have you seen the photograph of my other niece, Honor’s sister?” making a desperate effort to rally and change the conversation, and reaching for the frame, which she solemnly placed in Mrs. Langrishe’s hand.
“What do you think of her?” Here at least she was certain of scoring a small triumph.
“Think, my dear woman! Why, that she is perfectly lovely.” (It was safe to praise a girl who was in England.)
“At first she was coming out to me,” her aunt pursued, “but she changed her mind. Now we are thinking of having her out in November with the Hadfield’s girl.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Langrishe, reflectively, and still nursing the picture, as it were, on her knee.
She had a wonderful knack of picking up odd bits of news, and her brain contained useful little scraps of the most promiscuous description. Her mind was a sort of ragbag, and these scraps often came in appropriately. She rummaged out a scrap now.
She had recently heard, from a cousin of hers (an artist), of a Mrs. Gordon, a widow with two daughters, one of them lovely, who was sitting to him as Rowena—an ideal Rowena—but who was also a dwarf—a sort of little creature that you might exhibit.
“Does your niece live at Hoyle, and is her name Fairy?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?” rather eagerly.
“I have heard of her, recently, from my cousin, Oscar Crabbe. And why did she not come out?” looking at her with a queer smile.