"I cannot agree with you," said she, stooping to pick up her handkerchief; "I think men grow worse rather than better, the more they live in the world. I like people to be fresh, and earnest, and hopeful. Perhaps it is because I am none of these myself, that I rather appreciate boys."
Mrs. Lushington clapped her hands. "The very thing!" she exclaimed. "He's made on purpose for you. You ought to know Daisy!"
Miss Douglas drew herself up. "I do know Mr. Walters," she answered coldly; "if you mean him. I believe he is called Daisy in his regiment and by his very particular friends."
"You know him! and you didn't tell me!" replied the other gaily. "Never mind. Then, of course you're devoted to him. I am; we all are. He's so cheery, so imperturbable, and what I like him best for, is, that he has no more heart than—than—well, than I have myself. There!"
Miss Douglas was on her guard now. The appropriative faculty, strong in feminine nature as the maternal instinct, and somewhat akin to it, was fully aroused. Only in London, no doubt, would it have been possible for two such intimates to be ignorant of each other's predilections; but even here it struck Blanche there was something suspicious in her friend's astonishment, something not quite sincere in her enthusiasm and her praise.
So she became exceedingly polite and affectionate, as a fencer goes through a series of courteous salutes, while proposing to himself the honour of running his adversary through the brisket.
"You make yourself out worse than you are, Clara," said she; "it's lucky I know you so well. Indeed, you mustn't go yet. You always run away before I've said half my say. You'll be sure to come again very soon though. Promise, dear. What a love of a carriage!"
It was, indeed, a very pretty Victoria that stopped at the door—fragile, costly, delicate, like a piece of porcelain on wheels—and very pretty Mrs. Lushington looked therein, as she drove away.
She had turned the corner of the street some minutes before Miss Douglas left the window. Passing a mirror, that lady caught the reflection of her own face, and stopped, smiling, but not in mirth.