The impression made by Mr Welles on the ladies at the Abbey was of varied character. Madam commended him, but with that faint praise which is nearly akin to censure. He was well favoured, she allowed, and seemed to be a man of parts; but in her young days it was considered courteous to lead a lady to a chair before a gentleman seated himself; and it was not considered courteous to omit the Madam in addressing her. Rhoda said very little in her grandmother’s presence, reserving her opinion for Phoebe’s private ear. But as soon as they were alone, the girls stated their ideas explicitly.
“Isn’t he a love of a dear?” cried Rhoda, in ecstasy.
“No, I don’t think he is,” responded Phoebe, in a tone of unmistakable disgust.
“Why, Phoebe! Are you not sensible of the merit of such a man as that?”
“No, I am sure I did not see any,” said Phoebe, as before.
“Oh, Phoebe! Such taste as he has! And his discourse! I never saw so quick a wit. I am sure he is a man of great reach, and a man of figure too. I shall think the time long till I see him again.”
“Dear me! I shan’t!” exclaimed Phoebe. “Taste? Well, I suppose you may dress a doll with taste. His clothes are well enough, only they are too fine for anything but visiting.”
“Well, wasn’t he visiting, you silly Phoebe?”
“And he may be a man of figure—I don’t know; but as to reach! I wonder what you saw in his discourse to admire; it seemed to me all about nothing.”
“Why, that’s just his parts!” said Rhoda. “Any man can talk about something; but to be able to talk in a clever, sprightly way about nothing—that takes a man of reach.”