The doctor's wife pursed up her lips into a sympathetic smile, not at all abashed by this rebuff. She had seated herself in one of the high–backed chairs, with her muslin skirt spread out about her. She looked a living exemplification of all that is neat and prim and commonplace, in contrast with the pale, stern–faced woman, standing rigid and defiant in her long black robes.
"How very chy–arming!" exclaimed Mrs. Weston. "You are really not nervous. Dee–ar me; and from what my brother Paul said, I should have imagined that any one so highly organised must be rather nervous. But I really fear I am impertinent, and that I presume upon our very slight relationship. It is a relationship, is it not, although such a very slight one?"
"I have never thought of the subject," Mrs. Marchmont replied coldly. "I suppose, however, that my marriage with your brother's cousin––"
"And my cousin––"
"Made a kind of connexion between us. But Mr. Marchmont gave me to understand that you lived at Stanfield, Mrs. Weston."
"Until last week, positively until last week," answered the surgeon's wife. "I see you take very little interest in village gossip, Mrs. Marchmont, or you would have heard of the change at Kemberling."
"What change?"
"My husband's purchase of poor old Mr. Dawnfield's practice. The dear old man died a month ago,––you heard of his death, of course,––and Mr. Weston negotiated the purchase with Mrs. Dawnfield in less than a fortnight. We came here early last week, and already we are making friends in the neighbourhood. How strange that you should not have heard of our coming!"
"I do not see much society," Olivia answered indifferently, "and I hear nothing of the Kemberling people."
"Indeed!" cried Mrs. Weston; "and we hear so much of Marchmont Towers at Kemberling."