“Mr. Croyden has an appointment with me to-morrow, Amelia,” said Carrington, quickly—and Croyden gave him a look of gratitude.
“It will be but a pleasure deferred, then, Mr. Croyden,” said Miss Erskine, impenetrable in her self conceit. “The next morning will do, quite as well—I shall come at ten o’clock—What a lovely evening this is, Mrs. Carrington!” preparing to patronize her hostess.
The Captain snorted with sudden anger, and, abruptly excusing himself, disappeared in the library. Miss Carrington stayed a moment, then, with a word to Croyden, that she would show him 76 the article now, before the others came, if Miss Erskine would excuse them a moment, bore him off.
“What do you think of her?” she demanded.
“Pompous and stupid—an irritating nuisance, I should call her.”
“She’s more!—she is the most arrogant, self-opinionated, self-complacent, vapid piece of humanity in this town or any other town. She irritates me to the point of impoliteness. She never sees that people don’t want her. She’s as dense as asphalt.”
“It is very amusing!” Croyden interjected.
“At first, yes—pretty soon you will be throwing things at her—or wanting to.”
“She’s art crazy,” he said. “Dilettanteism gone mad.”
“It isn’t only Art. She thinks she’s qualified to speak on every subject under the sun, Literature—Bridge—Teaching—Music. Oh, she is intolerable!”