“Why not? You can’t burn, and that should make you more charitable. And I tie myself up in veils and umbrellas, which is absurd. Besides, what does it matter? You see, it is different with most of us; Miss Rose is so good-looking that she can afford herself these little luxuries.”
“That is a matter of opinion,” replied Miss Layard.
“Oh! I don’t think so; at least, the opinion is all one way. Don’t you think Miss Rose beautiful, Mr. Layard?” she said, turning to her companion.
“Ripping,” said that gentleman, with emphasis. “But I wish she wouldn’t beat one at tennis; it is an insult to the stronger sex.”
Mary looked at him reflectively. His sister looked at him also.
“And I am sure that you think her beautiful, don’t you, Morris?” went on the imperturbable Mary.
“Certainly, of course; lovely,” he replied, with a vacuous stare at the elderly wife of the baronet.
“There, Miss Layard, now you collect the opinions of the gentlemen all along your side.” And Mary turned away, ostensibly to talk to her cavalier; but really to find out what could possibly interest Morris so deeply in the person or conversation of Lady Jones.
Lady Jones was talking across the table to Mr. Tomley, the departing rector, a benevolent-looking person, with a broad forehead adorned like that of Father Time by a single lock of snowy hair.
“And so you are really going to the far coast of Northumberland, Mr. Tomley, to exchange livings with the gentleman with the odd name? How brave of you!”