“Sally is only thirty-four.”
“Only! the idea of saying only to thirty-four.”
“They don't look within eight or nine years of it, I declare. I suppose you will scarcely detect the slightest change in them.”
“So much the worse. Any change would improve them, in my eyes.”
“And the Captain, too. He, I believe, is now Commodore.”
“I perceive there is no change in the mode of travel,” said Mark, pointing to the trunks. “The heavy luggage used always to arrive the day before they drove up in their vile Irish jaunting-car. Do they still come in that fashion?”
“Yes; and I really believe with the same horse they had long, long ago.”
“A flea-bitten mare with a twisted tail?”
“The very same,” cried she, laughing. “I'll certainly tell Beck how well you remember their horse. She 'll take it as a flattery.”
“Tell her what you like; she'll soon find out how much flattery she has to expect from me!” After a short pause, in which he made two ineffectual attempts to light a cigar, and slightly burned his fingers, he said, “I 'd not for a hundred pounds that Maitland had met them here. With simply stupid country gentry, he 'd not care to notice their ways nor pay attention to their humdrum habits; but these Grahams, with all their flagrant vulgarity, will be a temptation too irresistible, and he will leave this to associate us forever in his mind with the two most ill-bred women in creation.”