“Bayswater is such a charming part to live in,” she began. “I felt as I came away from stuffy little Curzon Street quite as if I were on a picnic or a summer excursion. It must be so nice to live here; I wonder why nobody does?”
Edith smiled pleasantly.
“Oh, ‘nobody’ does,” she replied, pouring out tea; “and it’s only the ‘somebodies’ who don’t! You see, Miss Lestrange, you must pay the penalty of greatness.”
“Dear me--witty!” thought Miss Lestrange, and she used the word with as much disapproval as if she meant “wild.” Aloud she merely murmured something irrelevant about Kensington Gardens. It was one of Miss Lestrange’s great social gifts that she could allow an awkward silence to take place without any of the awkwardness adhering to herself. She would sit staring through a tortoiseshell lorgnette with an air which plainly said:
“This silence is nothing to me; I can break it whenever I choose--only I don’t choose.”
Unfortunately, Edith had the tea-things, which did almost as well.
“I think the Lindleys knew your aunt,” said Miss Lestrange at last. “It is so pleasant, is it not, to discover a mutual acquaintance?”
“Very,” said Edith. “It’s almost as exciting as making a new relation. Do you take sugar?”
“One lump, please. I was delighted to hear of my brother’s impending marriage,” continued Miss Lestrange; “delighted. Of course, I had been expecting it for some time. I have but little faith in inveterate bachelors, and none at all in inveterate widowers. Besides, a sensible marriage for a man of my brother’s age is very desirable. He settles down, the phase of romance is over, and the phase of domesticity sets in; and, of course, it is always a relief when one knows for certain that one’s brother won’t marry a barmaid.”
“I can’t fancy Horace marrying a barmaid at any time,” said Edith, smiling.