“You think it would be nice to become a Bohemian, and live in contempt of us poor subjects of Mrs. Grundy. Rhoda, those Bohemians struggle for nothing so hard as to get into society. If they are successful, the best fruit of their success is an invitation to a lady’s ‘at home,’ the unsuccessful ones would give their ears to be received in the most commonplace little drawing-room. Now you have already what they strive for so desperately. You’ll see all this plainly enough when you know a little more of the world.”
Rhoda turned away, and recommenced her pacing.
“What does your father say to it?” Mrs. Clarendon asked, after a short silence.
“Father? Oh! he shrugs his shoulders and looks puzzled. Poor father always does that, whatever the difficulty. If I ask him whether the butcher hasn’t charged us too much a pound for veal, he shrugs and looks puzzled. I believe he’d do just the same if I asked him whether to-morrow wasn’t going to be the Day of Judgment.”
Isabel raised her forefinger with a warning smile. Ada Warren laughed.
After another turn on the grass, the girl again paused before Mrs. Clarendon.
“Mr. Lacour told me the other day that he thought of going on to the stage himself. He didn’t see any harm in it.”
As she spoke, Rhoda examined the border of her hat.
“Mr. Lacour!” exclaimed Isabel. “Oh, Mr. Lacour says wonderful things, and has wonderful plans. So you confided your project to Mr. Lacour, did you?”
Isabel threw a rapid glance at Ada whilst speaking; the latter appeared busy with her book.