Secretly, I feel so assured of dear Dora's being a "match" for any mother-in-law alive that I endure no uneasy pangs on this count. She bears the congratulations and the little good-natured banterings admirably, is modest without being stupidly shy, and prettily conscious without betraying any symptoms of gaucherie. She is indeed as perfect in her new role of bride-elect as though she had sustained the part for years.
"Sir George must be a favorite with the gods: let us hope he won't die young," says Sir Mark, bending over Dora some time during the evening, "He has had everything he could possibly desire from his cradle upwards—money, friends, position; and now he must get you. I think"—in a playfully injured tone—"the good things of this life are very unequally divided. In common justice, Ashurst should have been forced into matrimony with a woman as ugly, ill-tempered, and altogether disenchanting as—his manners, instead of which—-"
He sighs audibly, and makes an eloquent pause.
Dora smiles, her usual soft serene smile, untouched by coquetry that experience has taught me means so little—and raises one white hand in deprecation. Dora's hands are faultless, filbert-nailed, creamy-white, pink-tinged, with just sufficient blue tracery of the most delicate kind here and there to call attention to their beauty.
"Is Lady Ashurst all that you say?—so very terrific? How unhappy you make me!" she murmurs, plaintively, demurely ignoring other parts of his speech.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Fresh and keen, and decidedly chilly, blows the October wind. The men have all deserted us, and gone out shooting. The women are scattered through the house.
Crossing the hall and the smaller drawing-room, I meet no one, and entering the larger apartment beyond, seek my favorite seat in the bow-window, where, book in hand, I ensconce myself behind the curtains, and, stretching myself upon a lounge, prepare to be lazily happy. The lace draperies falling round me entirely conceal me from view; I can see right into the conservatory without turning my head, and the seductive breath of flowers stealing towards me adds one more thrill to my enjoyment.
Steadily I turn page after page. I feel I am growing interested, a very little later I feel I am growing sleepy. My lids droop. Putting my book down, upon my lap, with of course the settled intention of taking it up again directly, I yawn mildly.
The door opens: with a start I become aware of Bebe's entrance. To admit I am present means conversation—and conversation with this drowsy fit upon me means misery. I therefore keep breathless silence, and Bebe, all unconscious, saunters past me, basket and scissors in hand, goes into the conservatory.