“I can’t believe that these big girls are the little sisters I left at home when I set out on my travels,” said Tom, when he had thrown off his travelling-cloak. “Polly? Oh, she is very pretty—yes, in her own way; and I daresay she is as pert as ever.”
“And she needs all her pertness to keep her head above water in such a household!” said Polly.
“But Betsy—oh, what an English sound Betsy has—far sweeter than Bettina, I’ll swear! Oh, Bacco, Betsy is our beauty,” said Tom, looking critically at the blushing girl before him.
“Psha! everybody knows that,” said Polly. “We don’t stand in need of a traveller’s opinion on so plain a matter.”
“You, Tom, are as like Betsy now as two—two roses that have grown on the same stem,” said Mr. Linley.
“Then I cannot without boasting say another word about her beauty,” laughed Tom, making a very Italian bow to the sister whom he loved.
He undoubtedly bore a striking resemblance to her. His complexion was just as exquisitely transparent as hers, and his eyes had the same expression, the same timorous look, that suggested the eyes of a beautiful startled animal—the most wonderful eyes that had ever been painted by Gainsborough.
“And her voice—has it also improved?” asked Tom, turning to their father with the air of an impresario making an inquiry of a trusted critic.
“Look at her face, boy; look in her eyes, and then you will know what I mean when I say that her voice is no more than the expression of her face made audible,” said Mr. Linley. “Look well at her this evening, my son; you will appreciate her beauty now that it is still fresh in your eyes; to-morrow you will have begun to get used to it. Brothers cease to be impressed with the beauty of their sisters almost as quickly as husbands do with the beauty of their wives.”