“Rosalind, how absurd you are! Poor, Plain Propriety!”
“As long as I live I shall hate the letter P,” suddenly interrupted Annie Day, “for since that disagreeable girl has got into the house we are always using it.”
“Never mind, Rosalind; go on with your story,” said Miss Jones. “What did Plain Propriety do?” Rosalind threw up her hands, rolled her eyes skywards, and uttered the terse remark—
“She flirted!”
“Oh, Rosie! who would flirt with her? I suppose she got hold of some old rusty, musty don. But then I do not suppose you’d find that sort of man at the Elliot-Smiths’.”
This remark came from Lucy Marsh. Rosalind Merton, who was leaning her fair head against a dark velvet cushion, looked as if she enjoyed the situation immensely.
“What do you say to a Senior Wrangler?” she asked, in a gentle voice.
“Rosalind, what—not the Senior Wrangler?” Rosalind nodded.
“Oh! oh! oh! what could he see—Geoffrey Hammond, of all people! He’s so exclusive, too.”
“Well,” said Hetty Jones, standing up reluctantly, for she felt it was time to return to her neglected studies, “wonders will never cease! I could not have supposed that Mr Hammond would condescend to go near the Elliot-Smiths’, and most certainly I should never have guessed that he would look at a girl like Priscilla Peel.”