“We find it difficult to do justice to both parties,” Miss Denham followed. “It seems to be a kind of clanship with women; hardly even that.”
Rosamund was inattentive to the conversational slipshod, and launched one of the heavy affirmatives which are in dialogue full stops. She could not have said why she was sensible of anger, but the sentiment of anger, or spite (if that be a lesser degree of the same affliction), became stirred in her bosom when she listened to the ward of Dr. Shrapnel. A silly pretty puss of a girl would not have excited it, nor an avowed blood-relative of the demagogue.
Nevil’s hotel was pointed out to Rosamund, and she left her card there. He had been absent since eight in the morning. There was the probability that he might be at Dr. Shrapnel’s, so Rosamund walked on.
“Captain Beauchamp gives himself no rest,” Miss Denham said.
“Oh! I know him, when once his mind is set on anything,” said Rosamund.
“Is it not too early to begin to—canvass, I think, is the word?”
“He is studying whatever the town can teach him of its wants; that is, how he may serve it.”
“Indeed! But if the town will not have him to serve it?”
“He imagines that he cannot do better, until that has been decided, than to fit himself for the post.”
“Acting upon your advice? I mean, of course, your uncle’s; that is, Dr. Shrapnel’s.”