“Pray, Ralph, do not answer my questions in that ridiculous way. You know what I mean, perfectly. You are not in the habit or lending your umbrella to the first person you happen to meet in the street.”
“Certainly not, mother. And as it happens I did not meet this protégée of yours in the street at all. I saw her as I came in, standing at the foot of the stairs, looking out at the rain rather disconsolately. It never occurred to me till I had run up stairs that perhaps she had no umbrella, and so I ran down again to see. I had no idea who she was. Young or old, ugly or pretty. I passed her quickly, thinking of other things; which was stupid enough, for I might have thought a lady would not be standing, staring at the rain for any pleasure in the prospect.”
“And when you ran down again did you see her, Cousin Ralph?” asked Florence, softly.
“Yes, Cousin Florence,” he replied jestingly; “but I am afraid I can’t tell you much about her. I only saw a young girl with pretty brown hair, for she was standing with her back to me, and hardly turned round to thank me, so eager was she to run off as soon as she had the umbrella.”
He did not add that as the girl had retraced a step or two to ask his address, her veil had flown back and revealed a pair or grey eyes, which the word “pretty” would not have adequately described. But “pretty brown hair!” What evil genius prompted Ralph to use the expressions? The first seed sown of many, that were in time, to yield a harvest of bitter fruit. The first small prejudice planted in the heart of a jealous and scheming woman. Pretty brown hair, indeed,” said Florence to herself, and she never forgot the words. Ralph so seldom seemed to notice anything, pretty or ugly, about a woman, that the slightest expression of admiration at once caught her attention. And in the present case another feeling was aroused. Notwithstanding all her self-satisfaction Florence was, to tell the truth, touchy about the colour of her hair. She thought it, really and truly, the loveliest that ever grew on a woman’s head, but yet she was aware that there was a diversity of opinion on the subject. Vulgar people, uneducated eyes might call it a defect. Spiteful people might say spiteful things about it, were they so inclined. She was sure that Ralph admired it, for under none of these heads could be classed. He, whose taste was refined and cultivated in the extreme, must, could not but think it beautiful; but yet — she could not endure him to speak of another woman’s “pretty brown hair.”
They went in to luncheon. As they were taking their seats at table they were joined by the two grand-daughters, “the children,” Florence’s “dear pets.” Charlotte, the elder, was a tall, well-grown child. Handsome already, and with promise of considerable beauty of the large, fair type. “Quite a Severn,” as her father had been before her, and already well aware of the fact.
Sybil was as unlike her, as in childhood, Ralph must have been unlike his handsome brother. A quiet, mouse-like little girl, with a pale face and straight, short-cut, rather dark hair. Sweet eyes though; and, indeed, far from plain-looking, when one examined the features more critically. Few, probably, were ever at the pains to do so, for she was precisely the sort of child that gets little notice; partly, perhaps, because she never seemed to expect it. She was rather an unsatisfactory child. Her grandmother loved her and cherished her, but yet somehow she did not, or could not, understand her. Her great delicacy and the constant care and indulgence it necessitated, would have utterly spoilt most children; but it had not done so with Sybil. Not, at least, in the ordinary way.
Lotty, one could see at the first glance, was tremendously spoilt. But she was by nature honest and hearty, though selfish, headstrong, and conceited. Conceited, however, in a childish, innocent sort of way. Laughable enough now and then. After all I hardly think the conceit was indigenous in her. I suspect Miss Vyse had had a hand in the sowing of it. Lotty was her avowed favourite, and on the whole had not improved in character since Florence had taken up her residence among them.
Lotty burst into the room and seated her-self opposite her cousin, without any of the gentle, half appealing air so pretty to see in a girl of her age.
“Soup” she said, coolly, in answer to her grandmother’s question as to what she would take; “that’s to say if it isn’t that horrid kind we had yesterday.”