“They don't seem to ha-have been long here, sister. The knif eboard in the scullery has n't been used above a—a few times. I should n't wonder if old Da-Da-Dalton won the villa at play.”
“Fudge!—Fuller on the brow, Martha—more expansive there.”
“Is n't the girl vulgar, sister?” asked Scroope.
“Decidedly vulgar, and dressed like a fright!—I thought it was only you, Martha, that rolled up the back hair like a snail's shell.” Martha blushed, but never spoke. “I suppose she's the same that used to cut the pipe-heads and the umbrella tops. I remarked that her fingers were all knotted and hard.”
“Her smile is very pleasing,” submitted Martha, diffidently.
“It's like her father's laugh,—far too natural for my taste! There's no refinement, no elegance, in one of your sweet, unmeaning smiles. I thought I had told you that at least twenty times, Martha. But you have grown self-willed and self-opinionated of late, and I must say, you couldn't have a graver fault! Correct it in time, I beseech you.”
“I 'll try,” said Martha, in a very faint voice.
“If you try, you 'll succeed. Look at your brother. See what he has become. There's an example might stimulate you.”
Another and a far deeper sigh was all Martha's acknowledgment of this speech.
“He was the same violent, impetuous creature that you are. There, you need n't tear my hair out by the roots to prove it! He wouldn't brook the very mildest remonstrance; he was passionate and irrestrainable, and what I have made him. Oh, you spiteful creature, how you hurt me!”