"Why? Because I know what kind of a man he is, and how hypocritically he conceals his unnameable vices under a cloak of respectability. I can tolerate anything but humbug,—remember that!"
Mrs. Courtenay winced, but stuck to her guns.
"I'm sure he's no worse than other men!"—she said—"And he's perfectly devoted to you! It would be much better to be Duchess of Ormistoune, than a poor lonely old maid looking after geniuses. Geniuses are perfectly horrible persons! I've had experience with them. Why, I tried to bring out a violinist once—such a dirty young man, and he smelt terribly of garlic—he came from the Pyrenees—but he was quite a marvellous fiddler—and he turned out most ungratefully, and married my manicurist. Simply shocking! And as for singers!—my dear Maryllia, you never seem to realise what an utter little fright that Cicely Bourne of yours is! She will never get on with a yellow face like that! And SUCH a figure!"
Maryllia laughed.
"Well, she's only fourteen—-"
"Nonsense!" declared Mrs. Courtenay—"She tells you that—but she's twenty, if she's a day! She's 'doing' you, all round, and so is that artful old creature Gigue! Taking your money all for nothing!—you may be sure the two of them are in a perfect conspiracy to rob you! I can't imagine why you should go out of your way to pick up such people—really I can't—when you might marry into one of the best positions in England!"
Maryllia was silent. After a pause, she said gently:
"Is there anything else you want to tell me? I'm rather pressed for time,—I have one or two letters to write—-"
"Oh, I see you want to get rid of me," and Mrs. Courtenay rose from her chair with a bounce—"You have become so rude lately, Maryllia,- -you really have! Your aunt is quite right! But I'm glad you have asked Roxmouth to dine to-night—that is at least one step in the right direction! I'm sure if you will let him say a few words to you alone—-"
Maryllia lifted her eyes.