Ethel darted a singular look at her, admiring, yet full of pain.
'I am not so short-sighted as you. I am sorry for a good man's mistake—for it is a mistake, whatever you may say, Mildred. Polly is pretty and good, but she is not good enough for him. And then, he is more than double her age!'
'I thought that would be an additional virtue in your eyes,' returned Mildred, pointedly. She was sufficiently mistress of herself and secure enough in her quiet strength to be able to retaliate in a gentle womanly way. Ethel coloured and changed her ground.
'They have nothing in common. She is nice, but then she is not clever; you know yourself that her abilities are not above the average, Mildred.'
'Dr. Heriot does not like clever women, he has often said so; Olive would not suit him at all.'
'I never thought of Olive,' in a piqued voice. Ethel was losing her temper over Mildred's calmness. 'I am aware plain people are not to his taste.'
'No, Polly pleases him there; and then, she is so sweet.'
'I should have thought him the last man to care for insipid sweetness,' began Ethel, stormily, but Mildred stopped her with unusual warmth.
'You are wrong there; there is nothing insipid about Polly; she is bright, and good, and true-hearted; you undervalue his choice when you say such things, Ethel. Polly's extreme youthfulness and gaiety of spirits have misled you.'
'How lovingly you defend your favourite, Mildred; you shall not hear another word in her disparagement. What does he call her? Mary?'