“Is she so very dreadful?”
This was Eurie’s insinuating question.
“Father and Nellis called, but I could not bring myself to go with them. I was sure I shouldn’t know what to say to Ruth. I tried to have them describe her, but father said she must be seen to be appreciated, and Nell would do nothing but shrug his shoulders and whistle.”
“She is simply terrible!” Marion said, with emphasis. “I didn’t stay fifteen minutes, and I heard more bad grammar and bad taste in the use of language than I hear in school in a week. And her style of dressing is—well,” said Marion, pausing to consider a strong way of putting it—“is enough, I should think, to drive Ruth Erskine wild. You know I am not remarkable for nervousness in that direction, and not supposed to be posted as to styles; but really, it would try my sense of the fitness of things considerably to have to tolerate such combinations as she gets up. Then she is fussy and garrulous and ignorant, and, in every way, disagreeable. I really don’t know how I am ever to—”
And at that point Marion Wilbur suddenly stopped.
“What about the daughter?” Eurie asked.
“Well,” said Marion, “I hardly know; she impresses you strangely. She is homely; that is, at first sight you would consider her very homely indeed; red hair—though why that shouldn’t be as much the orthodox color as brown, is a matter of fashion I presume—but she is large featured, and angular, and has the air and bearing that would be called exceedingly plain; for all that, there is something very interesting about her; I studied her for half an hour, and couldn’t decide what it was. It isn’t her smile, for she was extremely grave, hardly smiled at all. And I’m not sure that it is her conversation—I dare say that might be called commonplace—but I came away having a feeling of respect for her, a sort of liking that I couldn’t define, and couldn’t get away from.”
“Nellis liked her,” said Eurie. “He was quite decided in his opinion; said she was worth a dozen frippery girls with banged hair, and trains, and all that sort of thing, but he couldn’t give a definite reason, any more than you can, why he ‘approved of’ her, as he called it.”
“I don’t know what her tastes can be,” continued Marion. “She doesn’t play at all, she told me, and she doesn’t sing, nor daub in paints; that is one comfort for Ruth; she won’t have to endure the piano, nor help hang mussy-looking pictures in ‘true lights’—whatever lights they may be. But I should imagine she read some things that were worth reading. She didn’t parade her knowledge, however, if she has any. In short, she is a mystery, rather; I should like you to see her.”