“Every woman is unselfish, it is the appropriate adjective,” said Mrs. Berry-Montagu; “but you must recollect that you have no one to look after your interests, and that, however it goes against you, you must take yourself into consideration.”
“Oh, this is all much too fine for me!” cried the culprit on her trial. “Rather congratulate me on having been so lucky. I might have found myself with a vulgar hoyden, or a little silly parvenue on my hands; and here is a quiet little well-bred person, as composed, and with as much good sense— I am afraid with more good sense than I have myself.”
“Yes, she will make her own out of you. You are just a little simpleton, Mary Randolph, though you’re twice as big and half as old as me. She’ll turn you round her little finger. Isn’t your whole house turned upside down for her and her belongings? Why, there was a child about—a big pair of eyes, not much more—you are taking him pardessus le marché? She is capable of it,” cried the old lady, shaking a cloud of camphor out of her old satin skirts in impatience, and appealing to her colleague. Mrs. Berry-Montagu put some eau-de-Cologne on her handkerchief and applied it tenderly to her nose.
“You continue to use patchouly. I hoped it had gone completely out of fashion,” she said.
“It isn’t patchouly. I have my things carefully looked after; that’s why they last so well. I have little bags of camphor in all my dresses. It is good for everything. Many people think it is only moths that camphor is useful for, but it is good for everything, and a very wholesome scent. I hate perfumes myself.”
“Who is the little boy?” said Mrs. Berry-Montagu, with a languid smile.
“Ah, that is the sore point,” said Lady Randolph. “There is a little brother.”
This was echoed by both the ladies in different tones of amazement.
“Then how is it that she has the money?” Lady Betsinda asked “It came from Lucy’s mother, the boy had nothing to do with it; he has not a penny. Poor child! I can see Lucy is disturbed about him. He has three thousand pounds, and nothing more.”
“Dear Lady Randolph, how good you are,” said Mrs. Berry-Montagu, with gentle derision; “what can you want with a child like this in your house?”