Lucy blushed faintly, and fixed her eyes on the ground. She gave a slight signal of assent, and David played a melody.
“It is very beautiful,” said she in a low voice. “Play it again. Can you play it as we walk?”
“Oh yes.” He played it again. They drew near the hall door. She looked up a moment, and then demurely down again.
“Now will you be so good as to play the first one twice?” She listened with her eyelashes drooping. “Tweedle dee! tweedle dum! tweedle dee.” “And now we will go into breakfast,” cried Lucy, with sudden airy cheerfulness, and, almost with the word, she darted up the steps, and entered the house without even looking to see whether David followed or what became of him.
He stood gazing through the open door at her as she glided across the hall, swift and elastic, yet serpentine, and graceful and stately as Juno at nineteen.
“Et vera iucessu patuit lady.”
These Junones, severe in youthful beauty, fill us Davids with irrational awe; but, the next moment, they are treated like small children by the very first matron they meet; they resign their judgment at once to hers, and bow their wills to her lightest word with a slavish meanness.
Creation's unmarried lords, realize your true position—girls govern you, and wives govern girls.
Mrs. Bazalgette, on Lucy's entrance, ran a critical eye over her, and scolded her like a six-year-old for walking in thin shoes.
“Only on the gravel, aunt,” said the divine slave, submissively.