"The image of her mother. Tell me something about them. It's ridiculous, isn't it, how we can live for years within a stone's throw of our neighbors without ever knowing whether their Sunday clothes are made of silk or calico. George Prescott used to be my particular favorite, when he was a youngster. I remember when he married that empty-pated little beauty—I gave him tons of my choicest advice—was absolutely prodigal of my finest gems of wisdom; but when I saw her—well, I knew very well that there would be ups and downs—she should have married an Indian nabob—but, thought I, I might as well shout to the north wind to be placid as to tell him to give her up and find himself some sensible, excellent creature, who could mend his socks and turn his old suits for him. He would rather have lived on burnt potatoes and bacon, with that charming little spendthrift, than have enjoyed all the blessings of good housekeeping at the hands of the most estimable creature we could have found for him. I do like that spirit in a young man, however much my excellent common sense may disapprove of it.
"I saw nothing of George after his marriage. I was too fond of him to stand around offering advice, when he couldn't possibly make any use of it. I should probably have lost my temper just as Tom Prescott did—and I cannot endure to be in such a ridiculous position. I had a notion that Lallie Prescott didn't live here any more."
"I believe that the family suffers rather keen financial difficulties," said Mrs. Porterbridge. "The girls go out very little—are quite isolated, in fact."
"You mean that they are hard up—don't use those genteel euphemisms, my dear,—I can't understand 'em.
"I'm sorry. It was inevitable, of course, but I'm one of the few beings that sincerely regret seeing other people reaping what they've sown. I've always avoided my own deserts so successfully." Her big, jolly laugh rang out at this. "There are two girls, I remember. Both pretty?"
"Yes, indeed," replied Mrs. Porterbridge, in the unenthusiastic tone with which the mother of a rather plain daughter will praise the beauty of another woman's daughter.
"Hum. Well, that's distinctly something. I really couldn't work up any heartfelt interest in them if they were ugly—though, of course, I understand that beauty is only skin deep, and handsome is as handsome does, and all that—whoever invented those saws must have been unbearably ugly—I've always suspected that it was some plain, jealous old wife of King Solomon who got very philosophical in her old age. Now, I'd really like to know what little Lallie Prescott is going to do with them."
Mrs. Porterbridge gave a dry, affected little laugh, looking at Alma, who was waltzing again with the obviously infatuated Frank Barrows.
"Well, I imagine that she is going to do all that she can to marry them off as advantageously as possible, and I dare say that both of them——"
"Now, don't say anything cattish, my dear," interrupted the old lady, quite sharply, a sudden coldness routing the twinkle in her merry eyes. "I always know when you are going to say something that will annoy me, and nothing annoys me more than to hear an older woman say anything unkind about a young girl. I tell you this because I'm sure that you don't want to make me angry. If you are trying to tell me that Lallie Prescott is a schemer in regard to the future of her two daughters, why, I should be very much surprised to learn anything else. We are all schemers for our children—and just as in love and war, we consider everything fair so long as it works for their advantage. But——"