“Only once in their lives!” There was a groan of censure such as would have fired the loyal Major in defence.
“No wonder, Sister Phoebe, my Lady Belamour does not lead the life of a tender mother.”
“She has the little boy, Archer, with her in London,” Aurelia ventured to say.
“And a perfect puppet she makes of the poor child,” said Mrs. Hunter. “My sister Chetwynd saw him with his mother at a masquerade, my Lady Belamour flaunting as Venus, and he, when he ought to have been in his bed, dressed in rose-colour and silver, with a bow and arrows, and gauze wings on his shoulders!”
“What will that child come to?”
“Remember, Sister Delia, he is no kin of ours. He is only a Wayland!” returned Mrs. Phoebe, in an accent as if the Waylands were the most contemptible of vermin.
“I hope,” added Mrs. Delia, “that these children are never permitted to incommode our unfortunate cousin, Mr. Belamour.”
“I trust not, madam,” said Aurelia. “Their rooms are at a distance from his; they are good children, and he says he likes to hear young voices in the gardens.”
“You have, then, seen Mr. Belamour?”
“I cannot say that I have seen him,” said Aurelia, modestly; “but I have conversed with him.”