“I thought you were going to say that he reads badly,” said Florry, with a forced laugh.
“Oh no, Florry, I like his reading very much indeed; particularly of Tennyson and Browning.”
“It is not so melodramatic as your friend Mr. Calvert’s; but, in my poor estimation, it is in much truer taste.”
“What a strange girl you are! Do you forget the evening you said, ‘I’ll not let Joseph read aloud any more; I detest to see him in any rivalry of which he has the worst?’”
“I must have said it in mockery, then, Milly, for I know of nothing in which Mr. Calvert could claim superiority over him. I am aware this is not your opinion, Milly; indeed, poor Joseph has not many allies in this house, for even Aunt Grainger was one of the fascinated by our captivating guest.”
“Well, but you know, dearest Florry, what a magic there is in the name Calvert to my aunt.”
“Yes, I know and deplore it I believe, too, from chance expressions she has let drop, that her relations with those very people suggest anything rather than proud or pleasant memories; but she is determined to think of them as friends, and is quite vain at having the permission to do so.”
“Even Harry used to smile at her reverence for ‘dear old Rocksley.’”
“The worse taste in him,” said Florence haughtily.
“How bitter you are to the poor fellow,” said the other, plaintively.