“Well, I hope there are other people in the world beside Mr Crossland,” said Miss Marianne.
“All right, my dear,” replied her sister. “If you don’t care, I am sure I need not. I am not in love with Mr Crossland—not by any means. I never did admire the way in which his nose droops over his mouth. He has fine teeth—that is a redeeming point.”
“Is it? I don’t want him to bite me,” observed Miss Marianne.
Miss Newton went off into a little (subdued) burst of silvery laughter, and I sat astonished. Was this the sort of thing which girls called love?—and was this the way in which fashionable women spoke of the men whom they had pledged themselves to marry? I am sure I like Mr Crossland little enough; but I felt almost sorry for him as I listened to the girl who professed to love him.
Meanwhile, Grandmamma and Mrs Newton were lamenting over the news—as I supposed: but when I began to listen, I found all that was over and done with. First, the merits of Puck, the fat pug, were being discussed, and then the wretchedness of being unable to buy or wear French cambrics, and the whole history of Mrs Newton’s last cambric gown: they washed it, and mended it, and ripped it, and made it up again. And then Grandmamma’s brocaded silk came on, and how much worse it wore than the last: and when I was just wondering how many more gowns would have to be taken to pieces, Mrs Newton rose to go.
“Really, Mrs Desborough, I ought to make my apologies for coming so early. But this sad news, you know,—the poor Prince! I could not bear another minute. I knew you would feel it so much. I felt as if I must come. Now, my dear girls.”
“Ma, you haven’t asked Mrs Desborough what you came for,” said Miss Marianne.
“What I— Oh!” and Mrs Newton turned back. “This absurd child! Would you believe it, she gave me no peace till I had asked if you would be so good as to allow your cook to give mine her receipt for Paradise pudding. Marianne dotes on your Paradise puddings. Do you mind? I should be so infinitely obliged to you.”
“Dear, no!” said Grandmamma, taking a pinch of snuff, just as Dobson tapped at the door. “Dobson, run down and tell Cook to send somebody over to Mrs Newton’s with her receipt for Paradise pudding. Be sure it is not forgotten.”
“Yes, Madam,” said Dobson. “If you please, Madam, the army is a-going back; all the coffee-houses have the news this morning.”