"My dear Bell," exclaimed Isabel, with laughing delight, "how droll it is to think you have a lover; when I saw you last, you were such a bit of a girl! Sir John Spottiswoode is just the man I would have chosen for you—just the very person I should have singled out—is he not, Boscawen?—just the sort of man, with curling dark hair and high forehead, that you ought to like, dear Chrystal!"
"I had not dark curling hair, Isabel?" said Boscawen, smiling—"I had not a high forehead, had I?"
"My dear Boscawen, your hair was always dreadfully wiry, and I thought you very plain, but I liked you for all that, you know."
"Then why ought Chrystal to choose and love such things, my Isabel?"
"Ah! I dare say I am talking nonsense again," cried the humble Isabel, "for I should really recommend no one who does not resemble you, dear Boscawen. I should advise every woman to wait till they could find a kind, dear man, like yourself, and then they would not care about wiry hair, or...." Isabel hesitated and coloured.
"Say on, Isabel." Mr. Boscawen looked amused.
"I was going to say, they would not mind great long legs. Don't be angry, my love, with me."
Mr. Boscawen laughed. "You see, Isabel, the triumph of good sense over mere personal advantages. You cannot be ignorant, since you chose me in spite of my deficiencies. I hope all your young acquaintance may exhibit your indifference to mere good looks. Miss Wetheral, when shall we visit Hatton? Isabel, will you join the party?"
"I wish I could drive over with you, my love; but Charly is cutting a double-tooth, and I think little Bell is not quite well. I think I cannot leave my little ones two days, Boscawen!"
"Then Chrystal and myself will depart to-morrow for Hatton," said Boscawen, smiling, with gratified feelings, at his wife's love of her home and her little ones.