“As she always does—an English, middle-class gentlewoman; well, though gravely dressed, habitually independent of pretence, constitutionally composed and cheerful.”
“So she seems to me—bless her! The merry may laugh with mamma, but the weak only will laugh at her. She shall not be ridiculed, with my consent, at least; nor without my—my scorn—my antipathy—my—”
He stopped: and it was time—for he was getting excited—more it seemed than the occasion warranted. I did not then know that he had witnessed double cause for dissatisfaction with Miss Fanshawe. The glow of his complexion, the expansion of his nostril, the bold curve which disdain gave his well-cut under lip, showed him in a new and striking phase. Yet the rare passion of the constitutionally suave and serene, is not a pleasant spectacle; nor did I like the sort of vindictive thrill which passed through his strong young frame.
“Do I frighten you, Lucy?” he asked.
“I cannot tell why you are so very angry.”
“For this reason,” he muttered in my ear. “Ginevra is neither a pure angel, nor a pure-minded woman.”
“Nonsense! you exaggerate: she has no great harm in her.”
“Too much for me. I can see where you are blind. Now dismiss the subject. Let me amuse myself by teasing mamma: I will assert that she is flagging. Mamma, pray rouse yourself.”
“John, I will certainly rouse you if you are not better conducted. Will you and Lucy be silent, that I may hear the singing?”
They were then thundering in a chorus, under cover of which all the previous dialogue had taken place.