“Well, Katie, I can't say that you have mended your case at all.”
“Surely you can't deny that there is a great deal of character in Betty's face?” said Miss Winter.
“Oh, plenty of character; all your people, as soon as they begin to stiffen a little and get wrinkles, seem to be full of character, and I enjoy it much more than beauty; but we were talking about beauty, you know.”
“Betty's son is the handsomest young man in the parish,” said Miss Winter; “and I must say I don't think you could find a better-looking one anywhere.”
“Then I can't have seen him.”
“Indeed you have; I pointed him out to you at the post office yesterday. Don't you remember? He was waiting for a letter.”
“Oh, yes! now I remember. Well, he was better than most. But the faces of your young people in general are not interesting—I don't mean the children, but the young men and women—and they are awkward and clownish in their manners, without the quaintness of the elder generation, who are the funniest old dears in the world.”
“They will all be quaint enough as they get older. You must remember the sort of life they lead. They get their notions very slowly, and they must have notions in their heads before they can show them on their faces.”
“Well, your Betty's son looked as if he had a notion of hanging himself yesterday.”
“It's no laughing matter, Mary. I hear that he is desperately in love.”