In these parleys Joan, the second girl, was foremost. Maitland glanced at her. A young man may be very fastidious, but neck-ribbons awry and brown hair in rich disorder do not entirely close his eyes to a maiden's comeliness. It would be strange if they did, were she such an one as Joan Quaritch. Not tall, yet tall enough, with a full, rounded figure, to which her dress hardly did, hardly could do, justice, she moved with the grace and freedom of perfect health. Her fair complexion could afford to have its clearness marred by a freckle or two, such as hers, mere clots in cream; and if her features were not perfect, yet a nose too straight and a chin too heavy were more than redeemed by great gray eyes that, sunny or tearful, could be nothing but true--eyes whose frankness and good fellowship aggravated the wounds they inflicted. Why she was called "Dubs" I cannot tell. Perhaps no one can. But, in her good nature and her truth, her simple pride and independence, it suited her.
He had just, to quote the language of this cynic's thoughts, catalogued the last of the Graces, when the party reached the house, which stood some way back from the road. Tom Quaritch had just returned, and welcomed the guest warmly; his mother met Maitland at the drawing-room door. She was a singularly comely woman, stately and somewhat formal. Her greeting so differed from that of her daughters that the visitor found himself speculating upon the extraordinary flightiness of the late Mr. Quaritch. Wherein I doubt not he did him injustice.
At dinner our hero had in some degree recovered himself, and he told them the latest news of the theaters, the clubs, and the book world, and while their ignorance filled him with a wonder he did not hide, their attention propitiated him. He talked well, and if he was inclined to lord it a little, a shrewd word from Mrs. Quaritch, or a demure glance from Miss Joan's eyes, would lower his didactic tone. The youngest girl promised to be an especial thorn in his side.
"Does everyone in London wear shiny boots in the daytime, Mr. Maitland?" she asked suddenly, à propos des bottes, and nothing else.
"A considerable number do, Miss Agnes."
"What sort of people? No, I'm not being rude, mother."
"Well, I hardly know how to answer that. The idle people, perhaps." He smiled indulgently, which aggravated the young lady. She replied, crumbling her bread the while in an absent, meditative way, her eyes innocently fixed on his face:
"Then you are one of the idle people, Mr. Maitland? I don't think I like idle people."
"How singularly unselfish of you, my dear Agnes!" put in Joan vigorously--more vigorously than politely.
Maitland's last reflection as he got into bed was that he was quite out of place here. These might be very nice people in their way, but not in his way. He must make his visit as short as possible, and forget all about it as quickly as he could. The girls would be insufferable when they came to know him familiarly. Good gracious! fancy young ladies who had never heard of "John Inglesant," or of W. D. Howells' books, and confused the Grosvenor Gallery with the Water Color Exhibition! and read Longfellow! and had but vague ideas of the æsthetic! Miss Joan was pretty too, yes, really pretty, and had fine eyes and a pleasant voice, and fine eyes--yes, fine eyes. And with this thought he fell comfortably asleep.