"I have already asked you to drop this subject," she said.
"Well!—if you persist in your obstinacy, you can only blame yourself for losing a good chance,"—said Mrs. Courtenay, with real irritation—"You won't see it, of course, but you're getting very passee, Maryllia—and it's only an old friend of your aunt's like myself that can tell you so. I have noticed several wrinkles round your eyes—you should massage with some 'creme ivoire' and tap those lines—you really should—tap on to them so—-" and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay illustrated her instructions delicately on her own pink- and-white dolly face with her finger-tips—"I spend quite an hour every day tapping every line away round my eyes—but you've really got more than I have—-"
"I'm not so young as you are, perhaps!" said Maryllia, with a little smile—"But I don't care a bit how I look! If I'm getting old, so is everyone—it's no crime. If we live, we must also die. People who sneer at age are likely to be sneered at themselves when their time comes. And if I'm growing wrinkles, I'd rather have country ones than town ones. See?"
"Dear me, what odd things you do say!" and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay shook out her skirts and glanced over her shoulder at her own reflection in a convenient mirror—"You seem to be quite impossible at times—-"
"Yes,—Aunt Emily always said so!"—interposed Maryllia, quietly.
"And yet think of the advantages you have had!—the education—the long course of travel!—you should really know the world by this time better than you do?"—went on the irrepressible lady—"You should surely be able to see that there is nothing so good for a woman as a good marriage. Everything in a girl's life points to that end—she is trained for it, dressed for it, brought up to it—and yet here you are with a most brilliant position waiting for you to step into it, and you turn your back upon it with contempt! What do you imagine you can do with yourself down here all alone? There are no people of your own class residing nearer to you than three or four miles distant—the village is composed of vulgar rustics—the rural town is inhabited only by tradespeople, and though one of your near neighbours is Sir Morton Pippitt, one would hardly call him a real gentleman—so there's really nobody at all for YOU to associate with. Now is there?"
Maryllia glanced up, her eyes sparkling.
"You forget the parson!" she said.
"Oh, the parson!" And Mrs. Courtenay tittered. "Well, you're the last woman in the world to associate with a parson! You're not a bit religious!"
"No," said Maryllia—"I'm afraid I'm not!"