“So Bertie is coming,” said Sir John. “Why, Bertie? Yes, to be sure, he is a relation, and has a claim; but I see no reason why you should ask him so often. It looks as if you meant to throw him in Lucy’s way.”
“He will never be anything to Lucy,” said Lady Curtis, smiling.
“That is all very well; but how do you know? Girls are not like anything else. They may hate a man one week and accept him the next. I’ve lived long enough to see that.”
“You think they like to begin with a little aversion, as Mrs. Malaprop says—”
“Eh? I don’t know anything about Mrs. Malaprop. I speak from my own observation. I would not put him in Lucy’s way.”
“No one would be less likely to attract Lucy’s attention. Why, Bertie! he is no more equal to Lucy—”
“As if that mattered,” said Sir John, with quiet contempt. “What do they care? You’ve had one example; you ought to know better; and you will have another before you know where you are. You are injudicious, I must say. You don’t mind whom you introduce Lucy to, my lady; and if it is not one it will be another,” he said, winding up hurriedly as Lucy came in. The parents both looked at her with that tender admiration which is, perhaps, of all admiration the most exquisite. They were not easily pleased in respect to Lucy. Her dress, her ornaments, her appearance were all surveyed with fastidious eyes; and from her shiny hair to the tip of her little satin shoe, these two difficult people could bear no imperfection in this lamp of their life. Sir John’s inspection was not so minute or so intelligent as his wife’s; he could not tell what she had on, or whether there was technical perfection in her toilette; but he was very critical about the general effect. As for Lady Curtis, she went into all the details; and they were both satisfied; it was no small thing to say. There was a little cluster of white narcissus in her hair, which her mother liked, but at which Sir John shook his head. “Is that for Bertie?” he said jealously, in his mind. Girls were strange creatures; they liked to be admired whether they cared for the man who admired them or not; and no doubt she would fall a victim to one of my lady’s protégés, if not to Bertie. This thought it was, along with disapprobation of the flowers, as something added to her toilette for Bertie’s sake, which made Sir John shake his head.
“The Rolts were to have been here to-day,” said Lady Curtis; “but I hear Mrs. John caught cold at the Seymours’, and Julia has gone to nurse her.”
“Julia is always nursing somebody,” said Sir John.
Julia was Mrs. Rolt, the wife of the agent, who was a humble relation of the Curtises; and Mrs. John Rolt was the wife of his brother, the lawyer at Oakenden, who had the affairs of the county in his hands.