“A very well-bred young woman,” pronounced Flint.
“She is a Rochdale of Feldenhall.”
“It is very strange. I do not pretend to understand it.”
“Dearest Flint, where would be the sport if one could?” demanded his wife. “But, Ned, you did not tell me how very handsome she is! She has a great deal of countenance, and dignity too—far more than I have, I am sure.”
“Which is to say more than none at all!”
“Very true! It is not in my line: never was! But there is some mystery you have not told me about! It is too’ provoking!”
“It exists in your own head.”
“No! John is so silent!”
“John is always silent.”
“Pooh! I am not such a fool as to be put off so! Something I have discovered, but not the whole. I wish I had not to go into Hampshire!”