“I hate the country at this season,” the Duchess went on.
Her hostess melted to sweetness. “I delight in it at all seasons. And I think it now above all pleasanter than London.”
But the Duchess’s eyes were absent again; she was looking very fixedly at Bessie. In a minute she slowly rose, passed across the room with a great rustle and an effect of momentous displacement, reached a chair that stood empty at the girl’s right hand and silently seated herself. As she was a majestic voluminous woman this little transaction had inevitably an air of somewhat impressive intention. It diffused a certain awkwardness, which Lady Pimlico, as a sympathetic daughter, perhaps desired to rectify in turning to Mrs. Westgate. “I suppose you go out immensely.”
“No, very little. We’re strangers, and we didn’t come for the local society.”
“I see,” said Lady Pimlico. “It’s rather nice in town just now.”
“I’ve known it of course duskier and dingier. But we only go to see a few people,” Mrs. Westgate added—“old friends or persons we particularly like.”
“Of course one can’t like every one,” Lady Pimlico conceded.
“It depends on one’s society,” Mrs. Westgate returned.
The Duchess meanwhile had addressed herself to Bessie. “My son tells me the young ladies in America are so clever.”
“I’m glad they made so good an impression on him,” our heroine smiled.