“She'll be sharply criticised,” said Beecher, puffing his cigar.
“She can well afford it, my Lord.”
“What will the women say, Twining? She is so good-looking,—what will the women say?”
“Where there's no rivalry, there will be no dispraise. She is so surpassingly beautiful that none will have courage to criticise; and if they should, where can they detect a fault?”
“I believe you are right, Twining,—I believe you are right,” said Beecher, and his face glowed with pleasure as he spoke. “Where she got her manners I can't make out,” added he, in a whisper.
“Ay, my Lord, these are Nature's own secrets, and she keeps them closely.”
“It is the father—old Grog—is the difficulty,” whispered Beecher, still lower; “what can be done with him?”
“Original, certainly; peculiar,—very peculiar,—what fun!” And Twining in an instant recovered all his wonted manner, and slapped away at his legs unmercifully.
“I don't exactly see the fun of it,—especially for me,” said Beecher, peevishly.
“After all, a well-known man, my Lord,—public character,—a celebrity, so to say.”