“Who said so?”
“Lady Kenilworth.”
“Lady Kenilworth a purist! I fear she could give my poor Lady Mary a good many points——”
“What do you mean? Lady Kenilworth knows the world.”
“That no one doubts. And I dare say she would take the tiara, my dear mother.”
“I don’t understand you, and you have a very rude way of speaking.”
“Forgive me, dear!” said her daughter with grace and penitence. “I do not like your guide, philosopher and friend, though she is one of the prettiest women I ever saw in my life.”
“Well, you can’t say she doesn’t go to Court,” cried Mrs. Massarene in triumph.
“I am quite sure she will go to Court all her life,” replied Katherine Massarene—an answer on which her mother pondered darkly in silence. It must be meant for praise, it could not be meant for blame; and yet there was a tone in the speaker’s voice, a way of saying this apparently acquiescent and complimentary phrase, which troubled its hearer.
“Her answer’s for all the world like a pail of fine milk spoilt by the cow having ate garlic,” thought Mrs. Massarene, her mind reverting to happy homely days in the dairy and the pastures with Blossom and Bee and Buttercup, where Courts were realms unknown.