It was true. Esther had lived much less than her elder sister in the Coffinkey atmosphere, and there was nothing to mar the peculiar dignified innocence and perfect unconsciousness of her sweet maidenly bloom. She never guessed that every man, and every woman too, was admiring her, except the strong-minded one who saw in her the true inane Raffaelesque Madonna on whom George Eliot is so severe.
Nor did the lady alter her opinion when, at the end of a very curious speculation about primeval American civilisation, Captain Evelyn and Miss Brownlow were discovered studying family photographs in a corner, apparently much more interested whether a hideous half-faded brown shadow had resembled John at fourteen, than to what century and what nation those odd curly-whirleys on stone belonged, and what they were meant to express.
Babie was scandalised.
“You didn’t listen! It was most wonderful! Why Armie went down and fetched up Allen to hear about those wonderful walled towns!”
“I don’t go in for improving my mind,” said Cecil.
“Then you should not hinder Essie from improving hers! Think of letting her go home having seen nothing but all the repeated photographs of her brothers and sisters!”
“Well, what should she like to see?” cried Cecil. “I’m good for anything you want to go to before the others are free.”
“The Ethiopian serenaders, or, may be, Punch,” said Jock. “Madame Tussaud would be too intellectual.”
“When Lina is strong enough she is to see Madame Tussaud,” said Essie gravely. “Georgie once went, and she has wished for it ever since.”
“Oh, we’ll get up Madame Tussaud for her at home, free gratis, for nothing at all!” cried Armine, whose hard work inspirited him to fun and frolic.