‘I suppose I ought to know,’ said the curate, ‘for I have spoken to her three or four times. Whoever she is, she looks a lady and talks—with great sense at least; but more than that I know nothing, not even her name.’
‘What relation is she to John? I am glad to hear she is a lady. Our dear little Mrs. Sandford, whom we all loved—yes, yes, she was a true gentlewoman in her heart—but they were what you would call bourgeois, don’t you think? No, you must not shake your head at my French word. There is no English word that expresses what I mean.’
‘Middle-class,’ the curate said.
‘Middle-class is such a big word, and it does not mean the same thing. When I was young it meant gentry, too, all who did not belong to the very highest. Oh, yes, we are all as good gentlemen as the King; but I feel quite middle-class myself, not living with duchesses, nor wishing to do so.’
‘For that matter,’ said Mr. Cattley, hotly, ‘there are very few duchesses who are worthy to——’
‘Tie my shoe,’ said the lady, with a laugh. ‘Let us take that for granted; but middle-class is not what I mean exactly. And this Mrs.—— what is her name——’
‘I can’t tell, indeed. He said “my daughter.” The servants called her Sandford, but whether Mrs. or Miss——’
‘Oh, not Miss, at all events. That woman has gone through everything which is in life. I feel sure of it. It is a handsome face, but a great deal of trouble in it.’
‘Must one be married to have that?’ asked the curate, with a little sigh.
‘Yes,’ she replied, laughing again, for his little sentimentalities amused her, though she did not dislike them. ‘One must have been married to have a face with so much in it. You young ones have your own vexations, no doubt, but not of that kind.’