It would hardly be expected of such well-bred and amiable ladies, but I have often seen the eldest and youngest sisters annoy her—the second one—in some feminine way—men would never think of doing it, or guess how it is done—sufficient to call the angry blood to her cheeks, and cause her whole manner to change from gentleness into defiance. It was so now.
“I do not see anything so very ridiculous in my reading to papa out of any book I choose.”
I explained that I myself had begged for this one.
“Oh! and I'm sure she was delighted to oblige you.”
“I was,” she said, boldly; “and I consider that anything, small or great, which either I, or you, or Penelope, can do to oblige Doctor Urquhart, we ought to be happy and thankful to do for the remainder of our lives.”
Mrs. Treherne was silenced. And here, Mr. Charteris—breaking the uncomfortable pause—good-naturedly began a disquisition on the play in question. He bore, for some time, the chief part in a literary and critical conversation, of which I did not hear or follow much. Then the ladies took up the story in its moral and personal phase, and talked it over pretty well.
The youngest sister was voluble against it. She hated doleful books: she liked a pleasant ending, where the people were all married, cheerfully and comfortably.
It was suggested, from my side of the table, that this play had not an uncomfortable ending, though the lovers both died.
“What an odd notion of comfort Dora has,” said Mr. Charteris.
“Yes, indeed,” added Mrs. Treherne. For if they hadn't died, were they not supposed never to meet again? My dear child, how do you intend to make your lover happy?