"And yet—so far as a man may venture to judge within the compass of an hour—I don't think her head has been turned," said Allan, growing bolder.
"That's as may be. She has a clever little way of seeming wiser than she is. The nuns gave her that wise air, I think. They have a wonderfully refining effect upon their pupils. Do you think her good-looking?"
"Good-looking is an odious epithet to apply to such a girl. She is exquisitely pretty."
"I'm glad you admire her. Yes, it is a dainty kind of prettiness, ain't it? Exquisite is far too strong a word; but I think she is a little superior to the common run of English girls."
"I hope she may be able to endure Matcham. After all, the country round is tolerably interesting."
"Oh, I believe she will put up with it for her father's sake, if he is happy here. Only no doubt she will miss the adulation."
"She must not be allowed to miss it. All the young men in the neighbourhood will be her worshippers."
Mrs. Mornington shrugged her shoulders, pursed up her lips, and made a long slashing cut in a breadth of substantial calico.
"The young men of the neighbourhood will hardly fill the gap," she said. "Yourself excepted, there is not an idea among them—that is to say, not an idea unconnected with sport. If a girl doesn't care to talk about hunting, shooting, or golf, there is no such thing as conversation for her in Matcham."
Before Allan could reply, the drawing-room door was thrown open, and Mrs. Mornington rose to receive a visitor. Her seat in the verandah commanded the drawing-room as well as the garden, and she was always on the alert for arrivals. Allan rose as quickly, expecting to see Miss Vincent.