“Perhaps because they have more to do with their daughters than the papas have, and therefore the daughters’ mistakes touch them more nearly. That’s only one reason—and no reason at all. Women—I don’t say all women—no, no, Theresa, not all—are not very liberal in their views of life or of each other. Mothers and daughters are no exception.”
“You are quite right. Women are not liberal-minded.”
“In many things they are, and, queerly enough, in directions where men are bigoted. But in matters of dress and sentiment, they are often prodigiously intolerant.”
“Having been deceived by a girl,” said she, with a sweet laugh, “it is perfectly fair that you should have at the whole sex.”
“Pray,” I entreated earnestly, “pray don’t refer to that piece of folly. Had I met you before I met Conny, it never could have happened.”
She curtsied, perhaps to hide a little blush; and then asked me if I had ridden since my return from Thistlewood.
“I haven’t had time yet: but I shall hope to do so frequently now that you are here. And we’ll have some pistol-shooting too, if you like.”
“Oh, Papa objects, so I mean to give up the unmaidenly pastime.”
“You are very dutiful. Perhaps, on the whole, it is rather unmaidenly, especially when you take aim at sober-minded and meditative young gentlemen.”
“Am I never to be allowed to forget my nonsense!” she exclaimed, looking annoyed.