"Vidal informs me he has seen none but French women (and those of a certain class) with painted nails."
"Oh, famous!"
Barbara seemed to be so genuinely delighted by this piece of news that Lady Vidal thought it wiser to leave the subject. "That's as may be. What is more important is what you mean to do with your future. If you take my advice, you'll marry Lavisse."
"No, he would be the devil of a husband."
"And you the devil of a wife, my dear."
"True. I will live and die a widow."
"Pray don't talk such stuff to me!" said Augusta tartly. "If you let slip all opportunities of getting a husband I shall think you are a great fool."
Barbara laughed, and getting up from the stool before her dressing table, strolled across the room to a small cupboard and opened it. "Very well! Let us look about us! Shall I set my cap at dear Gordon? I could fancy him, I believe."
"Sir Alexander? Don't be absurd! A boy!"
Barbara had taken a medicine bottle from the cupboard and was measuring some of its contents into a glass. She paused, and wrinkled her brow. "General Maitland? That would be suitable: he is a widower."