“Oh, bright!” repeated Miss Jean. “Bright is not the word for it—is it, Amelia?”
“I would rather say brilliant,” said Amelia, coughing, and plucking a handkerchief out of her pocket to inhale its perfume and avert a threatening swound. “I hope—we both hope, Mr. Dyce, she will be spared to grow up a credit to you. One never knows?”
“That's it,” agreed Mr. Dyce, cheerfully. “Some girls grow up and become credits to their parents and guardians, others become reciters and spoil many a jolly party with 'The Women of Mumbles Head' or 'Coffee was not strong.'”
“I hope not,” said Miss Jean, hardly understanding: the painful possibility seemed to be too much for Miss Amelia; she said nothing, but fixed her eyes on the distant tree-tops and gave a little flap of the wings of her Inverness cape.
“Pease, pease!” murmured Mr. Dyce, unconsciously, anxious to hold them longer and talk about his niece.
“I beg pardon!” exclaimed Miss Jean, and the lawyer got very red.
“I hope at least you'll like Bud,” he said. “She's odd, but—but—but—” he paused for a word.
“—sincere,” suggested Miss Jean.
“Yes, I would say sincere—or perhaps outspoken would be better,” said Miss Amelia.
“So clever too,” added Miss Jean. “Pretematurally!” cooed Miss Amelia.