“We don't believe in Mrs. Wilson's affection on this side the table,” said Mr. Hardie; “but her revelations interest us, for they prove that Miss Fountain had a beginning. Now we had thought she rose from the foam like Venus, or sprung from Jove's brow like Minerva, or descended from some ancient pedestal, flawless as the Parian itself.”
“What, sir,” cried Bazalgette, furiously, “did you think our niece was built in a day? So fair a structure, so accomplished a—”
“Will you be quiet, good people?” said Mrs. Bazalgette. “She was born, she was bred, she was brought up, in which I had a share, and she is a very good girl, if you gentlemen will be so good as not to spoil her for me with your flattery.”
“There!” said Lucy, courageously, enforcing her aunt's thunderbolt; and she leaned toward Mrs. Bazalgette, and shot back a glance of defiance, with arching neck, at Mr. Bazalgette.
After breakfast she ran to Mrs. Bazalgette. “What was it?”
“Oh, nothing; only the gentlemen were beginning to grin.”
“Oh, dear! did I say anything—ridiculous?”
“No, because I stopped you in time. Mind, Lucy, it is never safe to read letters out from people in that class of life; they talk about everything, and use words that are quite out of date. I stopped you because I know you are a simpleton, and so I could not tell what might pop out next.”
“Oh, thank you, aunt—thank you,” cried Lucy, warmly. “Then I did not expose myself, after all.”
“No, no; you said nothing that might not be proclaimed at St. Paul's Cross—ha! ha!”