“Oh?” said she. “You think so? I rather imagined——” She stopped.
“So extremely sympathetic,” I continued.
“And so amusing,” said she.
“Amusing?” said I, slightly surprised, for I must say I had not till then considered it possible to be amusing on one single note, however flute-like.
“Even more—really witty. Don’t you think so?”
“Witty?” said I, with increased surprise.
She looked at me and smiled. “You evidently have not found her so,” she said.
“No. Nor do I care for wit in ladies. Your sister has been everything that is perfect—sympathetic, an interested listener, one who shares one’s opinions completely, and who never says a word more than is absolutely necessary; but thank goodness I have not yet observed her descend to the unwomanliness of wit.”
Mrs. Menzies-Legh looked at me as though I were being funny. It was a way she had, and one which I particularly disliked; for surely few things are more offensive than to be treated as amusing when you are not. “Evidently,” said she, “you have a soothing and restraining influence over Betti, dear Baron. Has she, then, never made you laugh?”
“Certainly not,” said I with conviction.