“But look at Mr. Jellaby—do you see how he is laughing?”
“At his own dull jokes, I should say,” I said, bestowing a momentary glance on the slouching figure in front. His face was turned toward Frau von Eckthum, and he was certainly laughing, and to an unbecoming extent.
“Oh, not a bit. He is laughing at Betti.”
“I have heard your sister,” said I emphatically, “talking in general company—such company, that is, as this tour affords—and she has done it invariably seriously, and rather poetically, but never has more than smiled herself, and never raised that doubtful tribute, a laugh.”
“That,” said Mrs. Menzies-Legh, “was because you were there, dear Baron. I tell you, you soothe and restrain.”
I bowed. “I am glad,” I said, “that I exert a good influence over the party.”
“Oh, very,” said she, her eyelashes cast down. “But what does Betti talk to you about, then? The scenery?”
“Your tactful sister, my dear lady, does not talk at all. Or rather, what she says consists entirely of one word, spoken indeed with so great a variety of expression that it expands into volumes. It is that that I admire so profoundly in her. If all ladies would take a lesson——”
“But—what word?” interrupted Mrs. Menzies-Legh, who had been listening with a growing astonishment on her face—astonishment, I suppose, that so near a relative should be also a person of tact and delicacy.
“Your sister simply says Oh. It sounds a small thing, and slightly bald stated in this manner, yet all I can say is that if every woman——”