"Oh, with trifles and tea, as you would suppose us to do. Mrs. Purcell gossips and lounges, as if she were playing with the world for spectator. Mrs. Laudersdale lounges, and attacks things with her finger-ends, as if she were longing to remould them. Mrs. McLean gossips and scolds, as if it depended on her to keep the world in order."
"Are you going to keep me under the hedge all night?"
"This is pretty well! Hush! Who is that?"
As Mrs. McLean spoke, a figure issued from the tall larches on the left, and crossed the grass in front of them,--a woman, something less tall than a gypsy queen might be, the round outlines of her form rich and regular, with a certain firm luxuriance, still wrapped in a morning-robe of palm-spread cashmere. In her hand she carried various vines and lichens that had maintained their orange-tawny stains under the winter's snow, and the black hair that was folded closely over forehead and temple was crowned with bent sprays of the scarlet maple-blossom. As vivid a hue dyed her cheek through warm walking, and with a smile of unconscious content she passed quickly up the slope and disappeared within the doorway. She impressed the senses of the beholder like some ripe and luscious fruit, a growth of sunshine and summer.
"Well," said Mrs. McLean, drawing breath again, "who is it?"
"Really, I cannot tell," replied Mr. Raleigh.
"Nor guess?"
"And that I dare not."
"Must I tell you?"
"Was it Mrs. Laudersdale?"