“My dear Lady Bell!” exclaimed Mrs. Fellowes, “what are you talking about?”
Lady Bell leaned back with her hands folded in her lap, and her eyes musingly staring at nothing.
“Yes, an angel,” she repeated. “I never believed in them until today, but I have seen one this morning—in a jeweler’s shop.”
“Lady Bell, how strangely you talk. I am getting alarmed.”
“You always are,” said Lady Bell, coolly. “I repeat, I have seen an angel. You are always trying to flatter me by talking of my beauty and such nonsense; but I have seen today a real beauty. Not a mere pretty pet mortal like myself, but one of the celestials! With eyes like a wild bird’s, and a lady, too, I’ll be sworn!”
“My dear Bell, what language!” murmured Mrs. Fellowes.
“A perfect lady; her hands, her voice would vouch for that. Her voice is like a harp. If I had been a man I should have fallen in love with her on the spot.”
“Fallen in love,” said Mrs. Fellowes. “My dear Bell,” with a politely suppressed yawn, “I am half inclined to think you have taken leave of your senses, and you will drive me out of mine. One night it is a young man whom we nearly run over; a—I must say—a tipsy young man.”
“No; he had only taken too much wine.”
“Well, if that isn’t being tipsy——”