"From a woman with social possibilities," she went on, "you have degenerated into a mere housewife. And you and Aubrey have become positively—"
She paused in order to be more impressive.
"Domestic!" she hissed at last with such vehemence that I bit my tongue. As I put in no defence she went on, gathering momentum as she talked.
"When I heard that you had come to live in one of the smartest towns along the Hudson, where millionaires are as thick as blackberries, I said to myself: 'Now they will rise to the occasion.' But have you? No! I come, fresh from those gorgeous house-parties in England, to find you and Aubrey no better than farmers and—satisfied with yourselves! If you could only get my point of view and see how satisfied you are!"
"We are happy,—that's what it is!" I interpolated, feebly.
"Then be miserable, but progress!" cried Bee. "Such a state of social stagnation as you exist in is a sin against yours and Aubrey's talents."
I was so stunned I forgot to bow at this unexpected compliment.
"Here you are in the midst of smart traps, servants in livery, horses with docked tails and magnificent harnesses, perfectly contented with fat, lazy horses, an old negro coachman in a green coat, and carriages whose simplicity is simply disgusting. There is only one really magnificent thing about Peach Orchard, and that is the dog."
I felt faint. To have earned the right to live in Bee's eyes only by a dog's breadth! It was mortifying.
"I don't care so much for myself," pursued Bee, comfortably, "but what
Sir Wemyss and Lady Lombard will say, I don't know."