“Well, she warn’t a beauty, then?” remarked Tim.
“Why, p’raps not, ’zactly; but I was that took aback I couldn’t see, but you’ve no call to say she’s ugly.”
“I didn’t,” retorted Tim, “only you said her hair was the colour of Broomfield’s colt.”
An old resident of the forest, a Mrs. Taplow, who, up to this time had been doubting whether she should call on Mrs. Bell, and being reminded by one of her neighbours that she had at length promised to go the first fine day with the Miss Taplows, answered decidedly,—
“No, I have now quite made up my mind; I don’t know, and I do not want to know, these Australians; he lets his son go about all day with a common forest gipsy, and she sends this same gipsy books and messages by her daughter; of course, the poor girl, never having been in England before, knows no better. Fancy! dear Jane and Bella consorting with the vulgar herd; yes, look in the dictionary—‘vulgar crowd;’ Walker describes them exactly.”
“Ah! the Forest is not like it was when I was a girl,” broke in Bella (aged 40).
And then the two Miss Taplows lifted up their noses, and sniffed scornfully.
We will now return to Burns’ smoking-room, where we left the two young men discussing emigration.