Lady Belinda leaning back upon her cushioned day-bed, glanced up from the open book before her and surveyed her niece's lovely, down-bent head with curious solicitude.
"Betty, love," said she at last, "Bet, my sweet witch, you're vapourish! So will I read to thee—list to this," and lifting her book, Lady Belinda read as follows: "'It must be granted that delicacy is essential to the composition of female beauty and that strength and robustness are contrary to the idea of it.' Alack, Betty, dear child and my sweet, I do fear you are dreadfully robust and almost repulsively strong! Hearken again: 'The beauty of women is greatly owing to their delicacy and weakness'—O my love, how just! I myself was ever most sincerely delicate and weak! How very, very true!" Here Lady Belinda paused, eyeing her niece expectantly, but, in place of indignant outburst, was silence; Betty sat apparently lost in mournful reverie.
"You like Mr. Dalroyd, I think, aunt?" she enquired suddenly.
"Indeed—a charming man! So elegant! Such an air—and such—O my dear—such a leg!"
"Major d'Arcy has a leg also, aunt—two of 'em!"
"And limps!" added Lady Belinda, "Limps woefully at times!"
"'Tis a mark of distinction in a soldier!" exclaimed Betty, flushing.
"True, dear Bet, very true—a mark of distinction as you say, though it quite spoils his grace of carriage. Still, despite his limp, the Major hath admirable limbs—a leetle robust and ultra-developed perhaps, child, doubtless due to his marching and counter-marching, whatever that may be. None the less, though I grant you his leg, Bet—he limps! Now Mr. Dalroyd, on the other hand——"
"Leg, aunt!"
"Lud, child——!"