The cheese which followed was Glo’ster of the ducal sound and soapy consistency, and then the empty plates, representing dessert, were placed upon the table—there was no fruit that day; grace had been said, and the ladies rose, Clotilde and Marie being kissed, and advised to place their bouquets in water in the drawing-room.
“They would look so nice if anyone called, my dears,” said Miss Philippa.
“Which they might, you know, my darling,” added Miss Isabella, smiling, and nodding her head.
So the flowers were placed in vases, duly watered, and the young ladies went up once more to their room, under orders to quickly redescend.
“There!” cried Clotilde maliciously, as soon as they were alone, “I knew it—I knew it! Ruth! Cindy! Do you hear! Go down on one knee, and kiss the hand of the future Viscountess or Baroness, or whatever she is to be, Lady Moorpark.”
“No, don’t, Ruth,” cried Marie fiercely. “Go and salute the future Mrs Elbraham. Let me see, Clo dear; do ladies who marry Jews become Jewesses?”
“Perhaps they do,” cried Clotilde, who had no repartee ready.
Marie laughed. “Jew—Jewess! Clo—old Clo! I wonder whether Mr Elbraham made his money that way? Eh, Clo dear?”
“I shall throw the water-bottle or the jug at you directly,” cried Clotilde, as she washed her hands. “Never mind: he is rich, and not old. I wouldn’t marry a yellow, snuffy old man, if he were ten thousand lords. There!”
“Who’s going to marry him?” said Marie scornfully.