“I don't know what you call diffidence and modesty; screeching here at the top of her voice and drowning every body's conversation. Do you think, for instance, that you or I would presume to sing in as large a company as this—with every body gazing at us like a show.”
“No, my dear Matilda, I don't think that we would. First, because no one would be mad enough to ask us; and, secondly, because if we did presume, every body would be stopping their ears, instead of admiring us with their eyes.”
“Speak for yourself,” retorted Matilda. “I still hold to my opinion, that it was impertinent to be stopping other people's enjoyment to listen to her.”
“On the contrary, I thought it a most welcome interruption, and I believe that most of the guests, as well as Sir William Berkeley, himself, concurred with me in opinion.”
“Well, I never saw any body so spiteful as you've grown lately, Caroline. There's no standing you. I suppose you will say next that this country girl is beautiful too, with her cotton head and blue china eyes.”
“I am a country girl myself, Matilda,” returned Caroline, “and as for the beauty of Miss Temple, whatever I may think, I believe that our friend, Mr. Bernard, is of that opinion.”
“Oh, you needn't think, with your provoking laugh,” said Miss Bray, “that I care a fig for Mr. Bernard's attention to her.”
“I didn't say so.”
“No, but you thought so, and you know you did; and what's more, it's too bad that you should take such a delight in provoking me. I believe it's all jealousy at last.”
“Jealousy, my dear Matilda,” said her companion, “is a jaundiced jade, that thinks every object is of its own yellow colour. But see, the dance is about to commence again, and here comes my partner. You must excuse me.” And with a smile of conscious beauty, Caroline Ballard gave her hand to the handsome young gallant who approached her.