“You impident baggage!” exclaimed the lord of “Chatters.” He had been quite in his element, taking judicial charge of the affair, drawing inferences and suggesting methods; and this irrepressible sister of his would do her worst to make him appear ridiculous.
“Tuke,” he said, turning to that silent and amused gentleman, “when you marry, marry a fool that knows herself to be one.”
“Indeed,” said the other, “that is easy; for any one that took me must needs answer to that description. Never hold me conceited after that, Miss Royston.”
Now, Heaven knows what Angela here chose to read between the lines; but she responded most icily:
“I doubt I shall take much interest in the matter, sir; though speaking generally, there seems to me no conceit like exaggerated humility.”
She sat herself down again, her lips set forbiddingly. Sir David grinned, mentally scoring a little spiteful victory, and Mr. Tuke looked very much bewildered and abashed.
Indeed, this sprightly lady suffered from a very common infirmity of poor humanity—an incapacity for graciously accepting such knocks as she dealt to others. One might unconsciously check her flow of spirits with the veriest straw of chaff, and only discover the enormity haphazard. Sometimes her sensitive nature would build up a grievance from a single word, so carelessly spoken and soon forgotten of the offender that, when he would come to view the complicated fabric of resentment that had sprung therefrom, he could only marvel at the astounding pregnancy of his speech.
“My sister having pronounced,” said Sir David—with a point of his little rude tongue in the direction of that incensed lady—“I come to the upshot of the apostleates—or whatever they are called.”
“And that is?” murmured Mr. Tuke, quite shyly.
“Why, that it ain’t no good looking for the stone where it’s been looked for before.”