"There are some more parcels for you, Mabel," said the fond mother presently, glancing at a side-table, where sundry neatly-papered packets suggested jewellery.
"More presents, I suppose," the young lady murmured languidly. "Now I do hope people have not sent me any more jewellery. I wear so little, and I—"
Have so much, she was going to say, but checked herself on the verge of a remark that savoured of vulgar arrogance.
She went on with the tea-making, uncurious as to the inside of those dainty-looking parcels. She had been surfeited with presents before she left her nursery. A bracelet or a locket more or less could not make the slightest difference in her feelings. She entertained a condescending pity for the foolish people who squandered their money in buying her such things, when they ought to know that she had a superfluity of much finer jewels than any they could give her.
"Don't you want to see your presents?" asked Rorie, looking at her, in half-stupid wonder at such calm superiority.
"They will keep till we have done tea. I can guess pretty well what they are like. How many church-services have people sent me, mamma?"
"I think the last made fourteen," murmured the Duchess, trifling with her tea-spoon.
"And how many 'Christian Years'?"
"Nine."
"And how many copies of Doré's 'Idylls of the King'?"