Adelaide glanced at the page, as if she did not know it by heart. "That? Oh! that is only Leam Dundas," she said with the faintest, finest flavor of scorn in her voice.
"Leam Dundas?" repeated Edgar—"the daughter of that awful woman?"
"Yes, and nearly as odd as the mother," answered Adelaide, still in the same cold manner and with the same accent of superior scorn.
"At least she used to be, you mean, dear, but she is more like other people now," said kindly Josephine, more just than politic.
Adelaide looked at her calmly, indifferently. "Yes, I suppose she is rather less savage than of old," was her reply, "but I do not see much of her,"
"I do not remember to have ever seen her: she must have been a mere child when I was here last," said Edgar.
"She is nineteen now, I think," said Mrs. Harrowby.
"Not more?" repeated Adelaide. "I imagined she was one-and-twenty at the least. She looks so very much older than even this—five or six and twenty, full; dark people age so quickly."
"She seems to be superbly handsome," Edgar said, still looking at the portrait.