“I beg your pardon,” she said; “but really, Belle Acheson, you are too absurd for anything.”
Belle closed her eyes and slightly turned her back upon Lettie. She made no other reply of any sort.
“I know you mean kindly, Miss Acheson,” said Leslie, who could never bear to distress anyone; “but how can you know, as you have never seen me before, whether mine is an earnest character or not?”
“Ah, you little guess my capacity,” said Belle in a patronizing voice. “It is my habit to pass each girl, when I see her first, in mental review. Most, I must tell you frankly, require the merest glance to tell me what failures they are certain to be. By a flash of my eyes I can discern how petty and small are the qualities of their souls; but you, Miss Gilroy, have a well-developed soul. Up to the present you have never let it die. Think how awful it is to carry within your breast a dead soul!”
“Yes; it would be very bad,” said Leslie.
“Bad? Awful is the word to use. Strong language is required for such a terrible possession; but it is a fact that many people do. I may almost say that most do. A dead soul. Let us ponder the words; let the thought sink deep. You observe the fact of its existence in the
dull and frivolous expression which looks out of so many eyes, in the poor aims which animate so many people, in the ignoble lives they lead. Ah! how great might man be if he could only soar!”
Here Belle raised her eyes to the sky.
“What a mercy she is not steering,” thought Leslie to herself. “We should all be in that bindweed at the other side of the river by now.”
“Belle, dear,” said Eileen, pushing out her foot and giving her friend a kick, “do, please, come down from the clouds. We were so anxious to introduce you to Miss Gilroy, and I am afraid you are frightening her. Don’t be quite so—so outré during your first interview.”