“Yes,” said Edith, with a sigh which she could not suppress; “nature has been lavish to me in that way—of late.”
“You really ought always to mourn,” said Mrs. Mowbray, in a sprightly tone.
“I'm afraid I shall always have to, whether I wish it or not,” said Edith, with another sigh.
“You are such a remarkable brunette—quite an Italian; your complexion is almost olive, and your hair is the blackest I ever saw. It is all dark with you.”
“Yes, it is indeed all dark with me,” said Edith, sadly.
“The child that I lost,” said Mrs. Mowbray, after a pause, “was a very nice child, but he was not at all like my son here. You often find great differences in families. I suppose he resembled one side of the family, and the captain the other.”
“You have lived here for a good many years?” said Edith, abruptly changing the conversation.
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Mowbray, “It's a very nice county—don't you think so?”
“I really have not had an opportunity of judging.”
“No? Of course not; you are mourning. But when you are done mourning, and go into society, you will find many very nice people. There are the Congreves, the Wiltons, the Symbolts, and Lord Connomore, and the Earl of Frontington, and a thousand delightful people whom one likes to know.”