“What a sarcastic smile,” said the admiring Rachael; “I declare I’m quite afraid of you.”
“Afraid of me!”
“Oh, you can’t disguise anything from me—I know what that smile means very well.”
“What?” said Mr. Tupman, who had not the slightest notion himself.
“You mean,” said the amiable aunt, sinking her voice still lower—“You mean, that you don’t think Isabella’s stooping is as bad as Emily’s boldness. Well, she is bold! You cannot think how wretched it makes me sometimes—I’m sure I cry about it for hours together—my dear brother is so good, and so unsuspicious, that he never sees it; if he did, I’m quite certain it would break his heart. I wish I could think it was only manner—I hope it may be—” (Here the affectionate relative heaved a deep sigh, and shook her head despondingly).
“I’m sure aunt’s talking about us,” whispered Miss Emily Wardle to her sister—“I’m quite certain of it—she looks so malicious.”
“Is she?” replied Isabella—“Hem! aunt dear!”
“Yes, my dear love!”
“I’m so afraid you’ll catch cold, aunt—have a silk handkerchief to tie round your dear old head—you really should take care of yourself—consider your age!”
However well deserved this piece of retaliation might have been, it was as vindictive a one as could well have been resorted to. There is no guessing in what form of reply the aunt’s indignation would have vented itself, had not Mr. Wardle unconsciously changed the subject, by calling emphatically for Joe.