“Oh! Julius will see to all that,” said Mrs. Poynsett.
“It is a woman’s question,” returned Cecil.
“Not entirely.”
“Fancy a clergyman’s wife! It Mrs. Venn had appeared in that way at Dunstone!”
“You would have left it to Mr. Venn! My dear, the less said the sooner mended.”
Cecil was silenced, but shocked, for she was far too young and inexperienced to understand that indecorous customs complied with as a matter of course, do not necessarily denote lack of innate modesty—far less, how they could be confounded with home allegiance; and as to Anne, poor Rosamond was, in her eyes, only too like the ladies who impeded Christiana on her outset.
So her ladyship retreated into languid sleepy dignity towards both her sisters-in-law; and on Monday evening showed herself, for a moment, more decolletée, if possible, than before. Mrs. Poynsett feared lest Julius were weak in this matter; but at night she had a visit from him.
“Mother,” he said, “it will not happen again. Say no more.”
“I am only too thankful.”
“What do you think settled it? No less than Lady Tyrrell’s admiration.”