He tells all this with as genuine an air as if it was not false from start to finish.
"You know Isabel," says he, laughing airily; "she takes the oddest fancies at times. Miss Maliphant is her latest craze. Though what she can see in her——A nice girl. Thoroughly nice—essentially real—a little too real perhaps," with a laugh so irresistible that even Miss Kavanagh against her will is compelled to join in it.
"Honest all through, I admit; but as a waltzer! Well, well, we shouldn't be too severe—but really, there you know, she leaves everything to be desired. And I've been victimized not once, but twice—three times."
"It is nothing remarkable," says Miss Kavanagh, coldly. "Many very charming girls do not dance well. It is a gift."
"A very precious one. When a charming girl can't waltz, she ought to learn how to sit down charmingly, and not oppress innocent people. As for Miss Maliphant!" throwing out his large handsome hands expressively, "she certainly should not dance. Her complexion doesn't stand it. Did you notice her?"
"No," icily.
"Ah, you wouldn't, you know. I could see how thoroughly well occupied you were! Not a thought for even an old friend; and besides you're a girl in ten thousand. Nothing petty or small about you. Now, another woman would not have failed to notice the fatal tendency towards rubicundity that marks Miss Maliphant's nose whenever——"
"I do so dislike discussing people behind their backs," says Miss Kavanagh, slowly. "I always think it is so unfair. They can't defend themselves. It is like maligning the dead."
"Miss Maliphant isn't dead at all events. She is dreadfully alive," says Mr. Beauclerk, totally unabashed. He laughs gaily. To refuse to be lectured was a rule he had laid down for his own guidance early in life. Those people who will not see when they ought to be offended have generally the best of the game.
"Would you have her dead?" asks Joyce, with calm interrogation.