Miss Jilian’s gray eyes glittered. She was no novice in the fine art of polite insolence, and knew enough of the world to recognize the string that worked the Lady Letitia’s tongue.
“I wish Cousin Richard joy of so experienced a school-mistress,” she said, tartly; “he himself has confessed to me, madam, that he does not love the fashionable world.”
Aunt Letitia tilted her Roman nose.
“Truth, Miss Hardacre, I think you misread the lad’s meaning. He referred to country fashions; and who can blame him? La, dear Miss Perkaby is about to sing again; a divine voice, and such grace and breeding,” and the Lady Letitia sat in stately silence through the song with a beatific appreciative smirk upon her bedizened face.
“Delicious,” she chattered at the end, bowing and beaming at Miss Julia Perkaby; “the lass has such soul. My dear nephew dotes on Miss Perkaby’s singing, and he is forever humming her songs over to himself. And do you sing, my dear?”
Miss Hardacre, flushed and angry, answered that she did.
“And Richard never told me. What a memory the lad has! Upon my soul, Miss Hardacre, the simpleton informed me that your hair was nut brown, when I can see with my own eyes how much gold there is in it. My poor nephew’s pate is always stuffed full of poetry. I expect that you have found him very absent-minded at times, my dear.”
Miss Hardacre’s cheeks were covered with a rare bloom, and she looked as though it would have afforded her exquisite pleasure to slap the Lady Letitia’s face.
“I find Cousin Richard very intelligent,” she retorted; “he has read some of his poetry to me. I can admire his genius, madam, though I do not pretend to be clever.”
The dowager elevated her eyebrows and nodded.