Mrs. Mimburn laughed—a high, giggling laugh, with a clever upward run at the end.
‘Nothing, my child—nothing,’ she replied. ‘All men are alike under the skin.’
Gundred had a flash of cleverness.
‘But the skin may be clean or dirty,’ she answered, ‘and that is what makes the difference—yes?’
‘Life, my dear,’ said Minne-Adélaïde sententiously, ‘is a garden of roses growing in manure. You cannot play about in that garden without getting dirty. And men like the gardening work, and they don’t trouble to put on gloves for it either. Life is a dirty affair, ma petite.’ Minne-Adélaïde honestly thought so, though her own life had been plain and clean in the most uninteresting degree, so far as its facts went. Gundred looked at her with chilly distaste. She misunderstood Mrs. Mimburn, thought her attitude genuine, instead of mere pose, and disliked her accordingly.
‘We shall never agree,’ she answered. ‘We see things very differently, Aunt Minna. We have always known different sorts of people.’
Mrs. Mimburn bit her enamelled lip. ‘Well,’ she answered, ‘I am sure I hope you will make a success of your life, dear Gundred. I do think the experiment is a little risky, though. Isabel is really a little dangerous, you know.’
‘Are you talking about my cousin?’ asked Gundred loftily. ‘Oh, please don’t trouble. I think we understand each other.’
‘No woman understands any other woman when there is a man in the case,’ replied Minne-Adélaïde. ‘Only misunderstandings happen then. We are all cats together. One always has to be careful of other women.’
‘How kind of you—yes?’ said Gundred; ‘but there is really nothing to warn us against.’