‘Are you?’ said Arthur, with a bright, confident smile.
‘By no means. He had not prepared me for so much beauty, and such peculiarly graceful movements. My drawing days are nearly past, or I should be making a study of her.’
‘That’s right, mother!’ cried Arthur. ‘What a picture she would make. Look at her now! The worst of it is, she has so many pretty ways, one does not know which to catch her in!’
Perhaps Lady Martindale caught her aunt’s eye, for she began to qualify her praise. ‘But, Arthur, excuse me, if I tell you all. There is nothing amiss in her manners, but they are quite unformed, and I should dread any contact with her family.’
‘I never mean her to come near them,’ said Arthur. ‘Though, after all, they are better than you suppose. She has nothing to unlearn, and will pick up tone and ease fast enough.’
‘And for education? Is she cultivated, accomplished?’
‘Every man to his taste. You never could get learning to stick on me, and I did not look for it. She knows what other folks do, and likes nothing better than a book. She is good enough for me; and you must take to her, mother, even if she is not quite up to your mark in the ologies. Won’t you? Indeed, she is a good little Violet!’
Arthur had never spoken so warmly to his mother, and the calm, inanimate dignity of her face relaxed into a kind response, something was faltered of ‘every wish to show kindness;’ and he had risen to lead his wife to her side, when he perceived his aunt’s bead-like eyes fixed on them, and she called out to ask Lady Martindale if Lady Elizabeth Brandon had returned.
The young ladies came in late; and Arthur in vain tried to win a look from his sister, who kept eyes and tongue solely for Miss Gardner’s service.
At night, as, after a conversation with his brother, he was crossing the gallery to his own room, he met her.