"I would rather they should be remembered to my advantage than to my disadvantage," the latter persisted. "It would be pitiful, to set up a standard which in all my life after I never could reach again."
"It is a very old institution"—Mrs. Mowbray went on, while the mischief in her eyes increased and her lips began to wreathe in lines of loveliest archness; Rotha's cheeks the while growing more and more high-coloured. "Rebecca, you know, when she saw her husband from a distance, got down respectfully from her camel and put on her veil."
"That was after her marriage," said Rotha. "That was not at the wedding ceremony."
"I fancy there was nothing that we could call a wedding ceremony," Mr. Southwode remarked. "Perhaps we may say she was married by proxy, when her family sent her away with blessings and good wishes. Her putting on her veil at the sight of Isaac shewed that she recognized him for her husband."
"Yes," said Mrs. Mowbray; "it was the old sign of the woman's being under subjection."
"And under protection—" added Mr. Southwode.
"But it does not mean anything now," Rotha said quickly. Mrs. Mowbray laughed, and Mr. Southwode could not prevent a smile, at the naive energy of her utterance.
"You need not think I am afraid of it," Rotha said, facing them bravely. "When I was only a little girl, and very wayward, I never wanted to do anything that would displease Mr. Digby. It is not likely I should begin now."
"My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, with every feature in a quiver of mischief,—"do you think you have given over being wayward?" And Rotha's earnest gravity broke into laughter.
"I think after all," said Mr. Southwode demurely, "all that old meekness was because in your conscience you thought I was right."