“Well, Addie my gal, what do you think of the Mésalliance?”
“One doesn’t profess to be a judge of chorus girls,” said the rude girl, jerking the unfortunate Himalayan Dust Spaniel right off his feet.
Actually rude to her Pa, you see. Really, miss! But are you quite doing her Justice, young friend? says Mr. G-ls-w-thy. Do you think the girl has had fair play? because, frankly, I don’t. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth; every whim gratified; never had a soul to cross or deny her; always able to go to the Stores and order what she wanted within reason; never rubbed her shoulders against life in its sterner aspects like your more fortunate heroine; never changed an iota since she used to bully her nurse. Fact is, young friend, says Mr. G-lsw-thy, you can’t expect people who have had a plumb wicket to bat on all their born days to play as well as those who have been well schooled on more difficult pitches. Mind, I don’t say that Adela would ever have been as nice as your Mary, but I feel very strongly that under fairer conditions there is a great deal of good in the girl that must have reached the surface.
Her manner would always have been a bit against her, of course, Pa not being over-rich for his position; the eye would always have been a little contemptuous, since it was its nature to; but there were certain things in the girl that a hard, uphill, unprotected life in the great textile towns of England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales, a trip to Australia and South Africa, and a six months’ tour in the United States and Canada might have developed considerably. But, concludes the Sage, it would have remained a nice question whether she would have been as well fitted to be a Mayfair hostess, or to arrange a shooting party, or to ride in Leicestershire, or to attend the gracious Consort of our Sovereign, as she is at present.
These alternatives are of a character that we are not competent to express an opinion upon; but, at present, Mr. Philip seemed to be in no doubt as to the wisdom of his choice; and really that seems rather important, particularly as the young fellow overflowed with happiness as he walked along the King’s Parade, longing to take the arm of the nicest girl in Brighthelmstone into his keeping, and yet fearing to do so since it was rather advertising the fact that they had only been married a fortnight.
“I say, kidlet”—overpass the epithet, you Old Married People; you know you have once been as guilty yourselves—“you talked like a book to the Belted One, didn’t you, what?”
“Yes, Phil-ipp, the poor old dear. The same complaint as Granny. I’m going to take him her apparatus and show him how to work it, and I’ve guaranteed that he will be able to walk upstairs after he has used it a week.”
“Have you, though? But how you dared, I’m blest if I know.”
“Cow-yard, Phil-ipp. He’s rather a dear, really.”
“A most disagreeable old gentleman, and the worst manners of any Privy Councillor in London.”