And Elise Littlewood was fond of thinking of herself as a student of character.
“I suppose you are devoted to the country, Miss Morion?” she said. “Naturally so. It must be in many ways delightful,” with the smallest of sighs, “to be able to enjoy it in the spring and early summer.”
“Of course,” said Frances, “those seasons are the loveliest everywhere. But I don’t quite agree with you that one naturally likes what one has the most of. On the contrary, many people long for the things that don’t come in their way,” and as she spoke a slight twinkle of amusement might have been discerned in her usually quiet eyes.
“Perhaps so,” was the rejoinder, “though it is perfectly impossible for any one to judge fairly of a kind of life they have never experienced.”
The touch of acerbity in the speaker’s tone roused Frances to a very rare impulse of self-assertion, and she was on the point of a reply which, however courteous, would not have tended to smooth matters, when there came an unexpected distraction in the sound of wheels driving up rapidly to the hall door, for the windows of the large drawing-room looked on to the front entrance.
“Who can that be?” said the elder Mrs Littlewood.
“It is too early for Conrad,” said his wife, “and yet,” for by this time she was glancing out of the window—“yes, it is a dog-cart; why, I declare, it is Horace!”
“Horace!” exclaimed his mother, “impossible! He was not to return till next week, and then only to—say good-bye.”
But all the same she rose to her feet, and turned towards the door with a word of apology to Lady Emma.