“Oh, Dixon! not those horrid blue flowers to that dead gold-coloured gown. What taste! Wait a minute, and I will bring you some pomegranate blossoms.”
“It’s not a dead gold-colour ma’am. It’s a straw-colour. And blue always goes with straw-colour.” But Edith had brought the brilliant scarlet flowers before Dixon had got half through her remonstrance.
“Where is Miss Hale?” asked Edith, as soon as she had tried the effect of the garniture. “I can’t think,” she went on, pettishly, “how my aunt allowed her to get into such rambling habits in Milton! I’m sure I’m always expecting to hear of her having met with something horrible among all those wretched places she pokes herself into. I should never dare to go down some of those streets without a servant. They’re not fit for ladies.”
Dixon was still huffed about her despised taste; so she replied rather shortly:
“It’s no wonder to my mind, when I hear ladies talk such a deal about ladies—and when they’re such fearful, delicate, dainty ladies too—I say it’s no wonder to me that there are no longer any saints on earth——”
“Oh, Margaret! here you are! I have been so wanting you. But how your cheeks are flushed with the heat, poor child! But only think what that tiresome Henry has done; really, he exceeds brother-in-law’s limits. Just when my party was made up so beautifully—fitted in so precisely for Mr. Colthurst—there has Henry come, with an apology it is true, and making use of your name for an excuse, and asked me if he may bring that Mr. Thornton of Milton—your tenant, you know—who is in London about some law business. It will spoil my number, quite.”
“I don’t mind dinner. I don’t want any,” said Margaret, in a low voice. “Dixon can get me a cup of tea here, and I will be in the drawing-room by the time you come up. I shall really be glad to lie down.”
“No, no! that will never do. You do look wretchedly white, to be sure; but that is just the heat, and we can’t do without you possibly. (Those flowers a little lower, Dixon. They look glorious flames, Margaret, in your black hair.) You know we planned you to talk about Milton to Mr. Colthurst. Oh! to be sure! and this man comes from Milton. I believe it will be capital, after all. Mr. Colthurst can pump him well on all the subjects in which he is interested, and it will be great fun to trace out your experiences, and this Mr. Thornton’s wisdom, in Mr. Colthurst’s next speech in the House. Really, I think it is a happy hit of Henry’s. I asked him if he was a man one would be ashamed of; and he replied, ‘Not if you’ve any sense in you, my little sister.’ So I suppose he is able to sound his h’s, which is not a common Darkshire accomplishment—eh, Margaret?”
“Mr. Lennox did not say why Mr. Thornton was come up to town? Was it law business connected with the property?” asked Margaret, in a constrained voice.
“Oh! he’s failed, or something of the kind, that Henry told you of that day you had such a headache—what was it? (There, that’s capital, Dixon. Miss Hale does us credit, does she not?) I wish I was as tall as a queen, and as brown as a gipsy, Margaret.”