"Who is she?" I say, with a slightly aroused interest. "I was wondering in church. I suppose she is delicate, as she sat down through the psalms."
At the moment I address him, Mr. Musgrave is battling angrily with an angrier wasp, but no sooner has he heard my question than he ceases his warfare, and allows it to buzz within half an inch of his nose, as he turns his hazel eyes, full of astonished inquiry, upon me.
"You do not know?"
"Not I," reply I lightly. "How should I? I know nobody in these parts."
"That is Mrs. Huntley."
"You do not say so!" reply I, ironically. "I am sure I am very glad to hear it, but I am not very much wiser than I was before."
"Is it possible," he says, looking rather nettled at my tone, and lowering his voice a little, as if anxious to confine the question to me alone—a needless precaution, as there is no one else within hearing—"that you have never heard of her?"
"Never!" reply I, in some surprise; "why should I?—has she ever done any thing very remarkable?"
He laughs slightly, but disagreeably.
"Remarkable! well, no, I suppose not!"