Miss Pavey was well and fairly, even fashionably, dressed, and generally she wore the aspect of what she was—a maiden lady who loved colour, and had, after sundry matrimonial disappointments, retired to a far-off west-country, sea-side place, where her moderate independency would be of so much more value than in a large town.
She sighed as she contemplated herself in the glass, and then held her handkerchief to her face and bent her eyes upon a book as she heard the rustle of a dress, and the door opened, when she rose to meet Rhoda with effusion, and an eager kiss.
“My dearest Rhoda, how well you do look!” she exclaimed. “What a becoming dress!”
“Do you think so, Miss Pavey,” said Rhoda, quietly. “Miss Pavey again! Why will you keep up this terrible distance? My dear Rhoda, is it never to be Martha?”
“Well then, Martha,” said Rhoda, smiling. “I did not expect to see you so early.”
“It is early for visitors, my dear; but I thought you would like to know the news. We have so little here in Carnac.”
“Really, I trouble very little about the news, Miss Martha,” said Rhoda, smiling. “But what is the matter?” she added, as her visitor once more held her handkerchief to her face.
“That dreadful toothache again,” sighed Miss Pavey. “I really am a martyr to these nervous pains.”
“Why not boldly go to Mr Rumsey and have it out?”
“Oh, no! oh, dear no!” cried Miss Pavey, with a look of horror, “I could not bear for a man to touch my mouth like that. Don’t mind me, dear, it will be better soon;” and it seemed to be, for it was a pleasant little fiction kept up by Miss Pavey—that toothache, to add truthfulness to the complete set she wore, and whose extraction she carefully attended to herself.