“Dear me! Is it not the same thing? How nice this room looks! Your own pretty things, I am sure. What quantities of charming photographs! May I peep at them?”—rising with a sprightly air.
“Oh, certainly, with pleasure. But they are chiefly Indian friends—and I doubt if you will find them interesting.”
“I am always interested in other people’s friends. But what do I behold?”—striking an attitude—“a bunch of peacock’s feathers! So unlucky! Why do you keep them, dear Mrs. Hayes?”
“They belong to Mrs. Gabb—not to me—you must ask her.”
“And you are not superstitious? Table-turning, palmistry, second sight, planchette: do you believe in any of those?”
“I don’t think I have much faith in any of them—no, not even planchette—though I heard a horrible story of a planchette who aggravated inquirers by writing such horrible things, that one man, in a rage, pitched it into the fire when it immediately gave a diabolical scream, and flew up the chimney.”
At this little anecdote I broke into a loud laugh—I invariably did so.
“Of course, that was arrant nonsense!” remarked Miss Skuce, carefully replacing the peacock’s feathers, and recommencing a tour of inspection.
I watched her attentively, with her pointed nose, near-sighted eyes, looped-up skirts, with a rim of chalky mud, and square-toed laced boots—shaped like pie-dishes—as she made a deliberate examination of Emma’s little gallery, throwing us remarks over her shoulder from time to time.