“I think not.”
“Oh, nonsense. You would not have refused to be mistress of the Manor. Merewood is a hovel in comparison.”
“Merewood has the man I love for master. If Jack had been the lodge-keeper I would have married him, and washed and cooked and mended for him, and opened the gate and curtsied to the gentry, and been happy.”
“Bosh!” said Sophy, very angry. “That’s the way girls talk when they are first engaged. It sounds ridiculously sentimental from an old married woman like you. You are absurdly prejudiced against Mr. Sefton.”
“Call it prejudice, if you like. I call it instinct. Birds are prejudiced against cats. I look upon Mr. Sefton as my natural enemy.”
“And I suppose, if he should call, you will be uncivil, and spoil my chances?”
“No, I will not spoil your chances—such as they are.”
“How disagreeably you say that. One would think you were jealous of an old admirer.”
“No, I am not jealous; only I don’t like to see you duped by meaningless attentions. I have no doubt Mr. Sefton does admire you—I only fear his admiration is worthless—but I will do everything that a sister can do to encourage him.”
After this conversation Eve was particularly polite to Mr. Sefton. Poor Sophy was so terribly in earnest in her desire to make a good marriage. The elder sister’s success had been so startling, so easy a conquest, so delightful a settlement in life, that it was natural the younger sister should cherish hopes on her own account. People told Sophy that she was growing more and more like Eve. Hope’s flattering tale told her that she was quite as pretty, while vanity suggested that she had more savoir faire. Poor Sophy had always prided herself upon her savoir faire, though how a quality which is, as it were, the final polish produced by society friction, could have been acquired by a young lady in a cottage at Fernhurst, must needs remain a mystery. Eve looked at her sister, and saw that she was prettier than the ruck of girls to be met in a London season. Her beauty had the dewy freshness that comes of a rustic rearing; her eyes were brighter than the eyes of the hardened fashionable belle. Her complexion had the delicacy of colouring which was characteristic of Colonel Marchant’s daughters—which had been, alas! Peggy’s chief beauty.