“Another dowager and fogy!” cried the Countess, musically. “Do you not dance, my child?”
“Not till the music strikes up,” rejoined Rose. “I suppose we shall have to eat first.”
“That is the Hamlet of the pic-nic play, I believe,” said her mother.
“Of course you dance, don’t you, Countess?” Rose inquired, for the sake of amiable conversation.
The Countess’s head signified: “Oh, no! quite out of the question”: she held up a little bit of her mournful draperies, adding: “Besides, you, dear child, know your company, and can select; I do not, and cannot do so. I understand we have a most varied assembly!”
Rose shut her eyes, and then looked at her mother. Lady Jocelyn’s face was undisturbed; but while her eyes were still upon the Countess, she drew her head gently back, imperceptibly. If anything, she was admiring the lady; but Rose could be no placid philosophic spectator of what was to her a horrible assumption and hypocrisy. For the sake of him she loved, she had swallowed a nauseous cup bravely. The Countess was too much for her. She felt sick to think of being allied to this person. She had a shuddering desire to run into the ranks of the world, and hide her head from multitudinous hootings. With a pang of envy she saw her friend Jenny walking by the side of William Harvey, happy, untried, unoffending: full of hope, and without any bitter draughts to swallow!
Aunt Bel now came tripping up gaily.
“Take the alternative, ‘douairiere or demoiselle’?” cried Lady Jocelyn. “We must have a sharp distinction, or Olympus will be mobbed.”
“Entre les deux, s’il vous plait,” responded Aunt Bel. “Rose, hurry down, and leaven the mass. I see ten girls in a bunch. It’s shocking. Ferdinand, pray disperse yourself. Why is it, Emily, that we are always in excess at pic-nics? Is man dying out?”
“From what I can see,” remarked Lady Jocelyn, “Harry will be lost to his species unless some one quickly relieves him. He’s already half eaten up by the Conley girls. Countess, isn’t it your duty to rescue him?”