“Of whom are you speaking, dear?” said Olivia, with the very softest accent.
Miss Kennyfeck started; her pale cheeks became slightly red as, with a most keen irony, she replied, “Could you not guess? Can I mean any one but Mr. Clare Jones?”
“Oh, he's a downright fright,” answered the other; “but what could have made you think of him?”
“I was not thinking of him, nor were you either, sister dear,” said Miss Kennyfeck, fixing her eyes full upon her; “we were both thinking of the same person. Come, what use in such subterfuges? Honesty, Livy, may not be the 'best policy,' but it has one great advantage,—it saves a deal of time; and so I repeat my question, do you think him handsome?”
“If you mean Mr. Cashel, dearest,” said the younger, half bashfully, “I rather incline to say he is. His eyes are very good; his forehead and brow—”
“There,—no inventory, I beg,—the man is very well-looking, I dare say, but I own he strikes me as tant soit peu sauvage. Don't you think so?”
“True, his manners—”
“Why, he has none; the man has a certain rakish, free-and-easy demeanor that, with somewhat more breeding, would rise as high as 'tigerism,' but now is detestable vulgarity.”
“Oh, dearest, you are severe.”
“I rather suspect that you are partial.”