“Magnate?”
“Yes, I daresay. Wealthy, anyway. He’s big and Vandyke-bearded. Well mannered,—but a bit preoccupied,—if——”
“Yes, we get what you mean,” said the irrepressible Ted. “Go on,—what about the daughter?”
“I haven’t come to her yet. The mother is due first. Mrs Varian is the clingingest vine I ever saw. I only saw her on parade, of course, but I’m positive that in curl-papers, she can whine and fret and fly into nervous spasms! Her husband spoils her,—he’s far too good to her,——”
“What a lot you gathered at one interview,” murmured Lawrence North.
“That’s what I went for,” Mrs Blackwood returned, coolly. “Well. Mother Varian is wrapped up in her blossom-child. Betty is a peach,—as I know you boys will agree,—but I never saw greater idolatry in any mother than Mrs Varian shows.”
“Betty worth it?” asked John Clark, idly.
“Rather!” Mrs Blackwood assured him. “She’s a dear thing. I don’t often enthuse over young girls, but Betty Varian is unusual.”
“As how?”
“Prettier than most girls, more charm, better manners, and,—a suspicion of brains. Not enough to hurt her, but enough to make it a pleasure to talk to her. Moreover, she’s a wilful, spoiled, petted darling of two worshipping parents, and it’s greatly to her credit that she isn’t an arrogant, impossible chit.”