The Miss Fennells, therefore, must describe themselves. Miss Teresa with her wealth of ruddy brown hair, her discreet allusions to the age at which a woman is at her best, her pathetic little memories of the past, all of which go to prove that she cannot be more than thirty-seven, notwithstanding these obvious characteristics, Miss Teresa eludes me. Neither can I any more describe Miss Mary.
It is personal bias that stands in my way. I think of their cruelty to Clarissa, and I can judge them from no other standpoint. It is as well then to leave it alone. Only the far-reaching and all-comprehensive eye can judge. I was prejudiced before I met them.
It was as I listened to Miss Mary, whose words hurry from her lips and remind me, in their simple anxiety to get out of her mouth, of children tumbling out of school, it was as I listened to her that I heard Bellwattle say to Miss Teresa—
"How is your invalid to-day?"
In a moment my hearing was alert, but the languid reply of Miss Teresa did not satisfy me.
"Much about the same," she answered.
I was not content to let it go at that. With proper sympathy, I inquired of Miss Mary.
"You have an invalid in your house?" said I.
"Poor child—we have indeed," replied she. "'Tis her eyes are very weak."
"Is the doctor attending her?"