“She keeps a circular printed—a stamped form of refusal,” said Daddy Gwyllian with glee. “Sends ’em out in batches. Have a mind to propose to her myself, just for the fun of getting a circular.”
“Your wit is as admirable as your invention is original,” said Hurstmanceaux, with much impatience, glancing, despite himself, at the box on the grand tier, where the classic profile and white shoulders of Katherine Massarene were visible beside the large, gorgeous, and much-jeweled person of her mother.
Margaret Massarene disliked the opera-house. What she called the “noise” always reminded her of the braying of bands and the rattling of shots on a day of political excitement in Kerosene City. But she was not displeased to sit in that blaze of light with her di’monds on her ample bosom, and feel that she was as great a lady as any other there; and she was proud and pleased to see the number of high and mighty gentlemen who came to make their bow in her box, and with whom Katherine “talked music” in the most recondite and artistic fashion.
“That’s the Duchess’s brother down there,” she whispered, as she turned her lorgnon on Hurstmanceaux.
“It is,” replied Katherine.
“Why don’t he come up here like the rest?” she asked. “He’s the best looking of them all.”
“He has never left his card on you,” answered her daughter. “It would be very bad manners indeed if he came here.”
“And why hain’t he left his card? I’m sure we’ve done enough for his sister.”
“He probably does not feel that any gratitude is obligatory on him. He probably does not approve of her accepting favors from strangers.”
“Then he’s born a century out of his time,” said Mrs. Massarene, with the acuteness which occasionally flashed up in her. “In these days, my dear, everybody takes all they can lay their hands on——”