“What could she have said?”
“I can’t make out. Rose was far too indignant to be comprehensible, when she told me on the way home; but there was something about adopting the becoming, and a repetition of—of some insolent praise.” And his mother felt his quiver of suppressed wrath. “If Rose had been what that woman took her for, she would have been delighted,” he continued; “but—”
“It was horrible to her!” said his mother. “And to you. Yes, I knew it would right itself, and I am glad nothing passed about it between us.”
“So am I; she quite separates you from Cecil and Anne, and indeed all her anger is with Lady Tyrrell. She will have it there was malice in inciting her to shock old friends and annoy you—a sort of attempt to sympathize her into opposition.”
“Which had a contrary effect upon a generous nature.”
“Exactly! She thinks nothing too bad for that woman, and declares she is a serpent.”
“That’s dear Rosamond’s anger; but I imagine that when I occur to Camilla’s mind, it is as the obstructive old hag, who once stood in her way; and so, without any formed designs, whatever she says of me is coloured by that view.”
“Quite possible; and I am afraid the sister is just such another. She seems quite to belong to Mrs. Duncombe’s set. I sat next her at dinner, and tried to talk to her, but she would only listen to that young Strangeways.”
“Strangeways! I wonder if that is Susan Lorimer’s son?”
“Probably, for his Christian name is Lorimer.”