“Is she rejoicin’? Tell us about the spirits, Mélie. I’m deadly keen. Deadly. She mustn’t be too delighted. I’ve told her she’s not to get engaged.”
“Engaged?” enquired Mrs. Craven, of the fire.
“She’s promised,” said Mrs. Corrie, turning off the lights until only one heavily shaded lamp was left, throwing a rosy glow over Mélie’s compact form.
“She won’t, if she’s not under the star, to be sure.”
“Oh, she mustn’t think about stars. Why should she marry?”
Miriam looked a little anxiously from one to the other.
“You’ve shocked her, Julia,” said Mrs. Staple-Craven. “Never mind at all, my dear. You’ll marry if you’re under the star.”
“Star, star, beautiful star, a handsome one with twenty thousand a year,” sang Mrs. Corrie.
“I don’t think a man has any right to be handsome,” said Miriam desperately—she must manage to keep the topic going. These women were so terrible—they filled her with fear. She must make them take back what they had said.
“A handsome man’s much handsomer than a pretty woman,” said Mrs. Craven.