Molly had allowed no time for inquiries on her first appearance.
“Oh, she’s well enough,” said Molly, carelessly.
“And Mrs Betty is now fully recovered of her distemper?”
“She’s come out of the small-pox, and tumbled into the vapours,” said Molly.
“The vapours” was a most convenient term of that day. It covered everything which had no other name, from a pain in the toe to a pain in the temper, and was very frequently descriptive of the latter ailment. Betty’s condition, therefore, as subject to this malady, excited little regret.
“And how goes it with Mrs Gatty? Is she now my Lady Polesworth?”
“My Lady Fiddlestrings!” responded Molly. “Not she—never will. Old Polesworth wanted a pretty face, and after Gatty’s small-pox, why, you couldn’t—”
“Small-pox!” cried Madam and Rhoda in concert.
“What, didn’t you know?” answered Molly. “To be sure—took it the minute she got home. But that wasn’t all, neither. Old Polesworth told Mum”—which meant Lady Delawarr—“that he might have stood small-pox, but he couldn’t saintship; so Saint Gatty lost her chance, and much she’ll ever see of such another. Dad and Mum were as mad as hornets. Dad said he’d have horsewhipped her if she’d been out of bed. Couldn’t, in bed, you see—wouldn’t have looked well.”
“But, my dear, she could not help taking the small-pox?”