“It is what I have been trying to persuade her,” said Agatha; “she is hardly seventeen.”
“And I would not have been married at seventeen for anything,” said Gillian to the pouting Vera. “I want to be more worth having.”
Vera did not like it, she had heard the like at home, and she fell back upon Valetta, while the others walked on. “Poor little Flapsy!” said Agatha, “I do hope this engagement may make more of a woman of her.”
“My father was very much struck by Mr. Delrio,” said Phyllis, “both as artist and personally.”
“You must be glad of the time for putting her up to his level,” said Gillian.
“Do you think such things are to be done?” asked Agatha.
“Yes,” said Phyllis stoutly. “You may not make her able to be a Senior Wrangler—(Oh you are Oxford!)—or capable of it, like this Gillyflower; but you can get the stuff into her that makes a sound sensible wife.”
Gillian caught a little hopeless sigh of “can,” and answered it with, “When all this effervescence is blown off, then will be the time for working at the substance, and she may be all the better wife—especially for the artist temperament, if she is of the homely sort.”
“How angry she would be if she heard you say so!” returned Agatha. “Yet certainly I do feel relieved that wifehood is to be my poor Flapsy’s portion, for she is not of the sort that can stand alone and make her own way.”
“There will always be plenty of such women in the world,” said Gillian.