“Tailor short?”
“Er—medium; not small, not too tall.”
“The perfect mean? I understand! Dark or fair?”
“Dark eyes, chestnut hair.”
“Oh, that’s not right. She has no right to monopolise the beauties of both complexions. And chestnut hair, too, the prettiest shade of all! Is she a real, true beauty, or only just pretty, like ordinary folk?”
“That must be a matter of personal opinion, mustn’t it, Miss Mollie? Ideas vary so much on these subjects.”
“Checkmate!” sighed Mollie to herself. “He won’t say what he thinks, and I can’t be so rude as to ask directly, though it’s just what I’m dying to know.” Aloud, she said carelessly, “Oh, I’ve no doubt I shall think her lovely, and adore her as I do all lovely people; that is, if she doesn’t scare me too much. Is she formidable and grande dame, or lively and easy-going?”
“That again must surely depend upon circumstances,” replied Victor sententiously, whereat Mollie tossed her head, declaring that he was as aggravating as Uncle Bernard himself, and almost as enigmatical.
As for Ruth, she walked along with compressed lips and frowning brows. It was not possible for a girl to find herself thrown into close companionship with two young men, and not wonder in the recesses of her heart if perchance friendship might not eventually develop into something warmer. Ruth and Mollie had both thought and dreamed, and to each it had occurred that possibly some such ending of the great problem might have occurred to Mr Farrell himself. There was no barrier of near relationship to prevent two of the young people making a match, if they were so disposed; and while Uncle Bernard, so far, seemed to favour his elder niece, he had expressly stated that he would prefer a male heir. Ruth’s favour was not easily won, but as both young men appeared agreeable, gentlemanly, and good-looking, it had been a distinctly pleasant experience to look forward and wonder if he,—if I,—if perhaps some day, long ahead, when we know each other well... All girls have such dreams, and understand how their existence adds savour to a situation. It was not a little trying, then, when Jack Melland insisted on returning to town, and Victor Druce, in his turn, must needs betray an undoubted interest in another girl.
“Tiresome thing!” murmured Ruth to herself; referring, needless to say, not to Victor, but to the innocent Margot herself. “I knew I should dislike her from the moment when Mrs Thornton mentioned her name. Why couldn’t she be happy in town, with all her grand friends, instead of rushing down here to interfere with us the moment we arrive? She is sure to hear the reason why we are here—everyone knows it; and if she is mercenary she will like Victor better now that he has a chance of inheriting the Court, and, when he knows her connection with the neighbourhood, she will seem to him more desirable than ever. Uncle Bernard would be pleased, and think her a suitable mistress for the Court, and they will get everything, and we’ll get nothing, and go home as failures... Mother will be disappointed, and everything will be duller and pokier than ever...”