By Way of Grace.
Miss Royston rose to meet her brother in the candle-light. A really superb collect of diamonds sparkled on her white bosom.
“Are they not ravishing?” she said; “and is not Dunlone a princely suitor?”
“Why, he cannot do credit to his own selection with niggardliness.”
“You are always grudging in your acknowledgment of his condescension, brother—yes, condescension, sir, for all your little flippant nose. And simplicity in a smock may be a very engaging thing, but I vow I prefer it in a coronet.”
“Rank, madam, is but the guinea stamp.”
“Then I would be the guinea-hen, and you may go, if you will, to the barn-door for your partner.”
“Angel, the stones are very fine. What a storm in a tea-cup! Dunlone knows where to lay out his property to the best advantage, and I swear your white skin pays a pretty interest on his investment.”
This might have been designed for a compliment. The incensed lady was not to be appeased.
“You may swear,” she said; “but not in my company. This last year is responsible for more than one change to a coarseness of sentiment in you; though, being the impressionable child you are, I do not wonder.”