“My dear Jack, I need n't tell you that we girls are not always fair in our estimates of each other, even when we think we are,—and it is not always that we want to think so. Julia is not a coquette in any sense that the word carries censure, and you were exceedingly wrong to tell her she was.”
“That's how it is!” cried he, pitching his cigar away in impatience. “There's a freemasonry amongst you that calls you all to arms the moment one is attacked. Is n't it open to a man to tell the girl he hopes to make his wife that there are things in her manner he does n't approve of and would like changed?”
“Certainly not; at least it would require some nicer tact than yours to approach such a theme with safety.”
“Temple, perhaps, could do it,” said he, sneeringly.
“Temple certainly would not attempt it.”
Jack made a gesture of impatience, and, as if desirous to change the subject, said, “What 's the matter with our distinguished guest? Is he ill, that he won't dine below-stairs to-day?”
“He calls it a slight return of his Greek fever, and begs to be excused from presenting himself at dinner.”
“He and Temple have been writing little three-cornered notes to each other all the morning. I suppose it is diplomatic usage.”
The tone of irritation he spoke in seemed to show that he was actually seeking for something to vent his anger upon, and trying to provoke some word of contradiction or dissent; but she was silent, and for some seconds they walked on without speaking.
“Look!” cried he, suddenly; “there goes Julia. Do you see her yonder on the path up the cliff; and who is that clambering after her? I'll be shot if it's not Lord Culduff.”