“Now, I am going to tell you all about her, Mr. Kendricks,” Mrs. March broke in upon me, with defiance in her eye; and she flung out the whole fact with a rapidity of utterance that would have left far behind any attempt of mine. But I made no attempt to compete with her; I contented myself with a sarcastic silence which I could see daunted her a little at last.
“And all that we’ve done, my dear fellow”—I took in irony the word she left to me—“is to load ourselves up with these two impossible people, to go their security to destiny, and answer for their having a good time. We’re in luck.”
“Why, I don’t know,” said Kendricks, and I could see that his fancy was beginning to play with the situation; “I don’t see why it isn’t a charming scheme.”
“Of course it is,” cried Mrs. March, taking a little heart from his courage.
“We can’t make out yet whether the girl is interesting,” I put in maliciously.
“That is what you say,” said my wife. “She is very shy, and of course she wouldn’t show out her real nature to you. I found her very interesting.”
“Now, Isabel!” I protested.
“She is fascinating,” the perverse woman persisted. “She has a fascinating dulness.”
Kendricks laughed and I jeered at this complex characterisation.
“You make me impatient to judge for myself,” he said.