"You don't understand me, after all," said Elisabeth reproachfully.
Cecil's smile was very pleasant. "Don't I? Yet it was I who painted The Daughters of Philip."
There was a moment's constrained silence; and then Elisabeth broke the tension by saying lightly—
"Look! there's Lady Silverhampton coming back again. Isn't it a pity she is so stout? I do hope I shall never be stout, for flesh is a most difficult thing to live down."
"You are right; there are few things in the world worse than stoutness."
"I only know two: sin and boiled cabbage."
"And crochet-antimacassars," added Cecil; "you're forgetting crochet-antimacassars. I speak feelingly, because my present lodgings are white with them; and they stick to my coat like leeches, and follow me whithersoever I go. I am never alone from them."
"If I were as stout as Lady Silverhampton," said Elisabeth thoughtfully, "I should either cut myself up into building lots, or else let myself out into market gardens: I should never go about whole; should you?"
"Certainly not; I would rather publish myself in sections, as dictionaries and encyclopædias do!"
"Lady Silverhampton presented me," remarked Elisabeth, "so I always feel a sort of god-daughterly respect for her, which enhances the pleasure of abusing her."