Elfride’s troubles sat upon her face as well as in her heart. Perhaps to a woman it is almost as dreadful to think of losing her beauty as of losing her reputation. At any rate, she looked quite as gloomy as she had looked at any minute that day.
“You shouldn’t be so troubled about a mere personal adornment,” said Knight, with some of the severity of tone that had been customary before she had beguiled him into softness.
“I think it is a woman’s duty to be as beautiful as she can. If I were a scholar, I would give you chapter and verse for it from one of your own Latin authors. I know there is such a passage, for papa has alluded to it.”
‘“Munditiae, et ornatus, et cultus,’ &c.—is that it? A passage in Livy which is no defence at all.”
“No, it is not that.”
“Never mind, then; for I have a reason for not taking up my old cudgels against you, Elfie. Can you guess what the reason is?”
“No; but I am glad to hear it,” she said thankfully. “For it is dreadful when you talk so. For whatever dreadful name the weakness may deserve, I must candidly own that I am terrified to think my hair may ever get thin.”
“Of course; a sensible woman would rather lose her wits than her beauty.”
“I don’t care if you do say satire and judge me cruelly. I know my hair is beautiful; everybody says so.”
“Why, my dear Miss Swancourt,” he tenderly replied, “I have not said anything against it. But you know what is said about handsome being and handsome doing.”