“I am sure you always give very nice dinners,” she said; “and then, you know, the Colonel has his favourite dishes—whereas, I must say for papa, he is very reasonable for a man. I am so glad you are pleased. It is very kind of you to say it is genius, but I don’t pretend to anything but paying great attention and studying the combinations. There is nothing one cannot manage if one only takes the trouble. Come here to this nice easy-chair—it is so comfortable. It is so nice to have a little moment to ourselves before they come upstairs.”
“That is what I always say,” said Mrs. Chiley; “but there are not many girls so sensible as you, Lucilla. I hear them all saying it is so much better French fashion. Of course, I am an old woman, and like things in the old style.”
“I don’t think it is because I am more sensible,” said Miss Marjoribanks, with modesty. “I don’t pretend to be better than other people. It is because I have thought it all over, you know—and then I went through a course of political economy when I was at Mount Pleasant,” Lucilla said tranquilly, with an air of having explained the whole matter, which much impressed her hearer. “But for all that, something dreadful happened today. Tom brought in one of his friends with him, you know, and Miss Bury was here, and they talked—I want to tell you, in case she should say something, and then you will know what to believe. I never felt so dreadfully ashamed in my life—they talked—”
“My dear! not anything improper, I hope,” cried the old lady, in dismay.
“Oh, no,” said Lucilla; “but they began laughing about some people having no souls, you know—as if there could be anybody without a soul—and poor Miss Bury nearly fainted. You may think what a dreadful thing it was for me.”
“My dear child, if that was all,” said Mrs. Chiley, reassured—“as for everybody having a soul, I am sure I cannot say. You never were in India, to be sure; but Miss Bury should have known better than to faint at a young man’s talk, and frighten you, my poor dear. She ought to be ashamed of herself, at her age. Do you think Tom has turned out clever?” the old lady continued, not without a little finesse, and watching Lucilla with a curious eye.
“Not in the very least,” said Miss Marjoribanks calmly; “he is just as awkward as he used to be. It is dreadful to have him here just now, when I have so many things to do—and then he would follow me about everywhere if I would let him. A cousin of that sort is always in the way.”
“I am always afraid of a cousin, for my part,” said Mrs. Chiley; “and talking of that, what do you think of Mr. Cavendish, Lucilla? He is very nice in himself, and he has a nice property; and some people say he has a very good chance to be member for Carlingford when there is an election. I think that is just what would suit you.”
“I could not see him for the lamp,” said Lucilla; “it was right between us, you know—but it is no use talking of that sort of thing just now. Of course, if I had liked, I never need have come home at all,” Miss Marjoribanks added, with composure; “and, now I have come home, I have got other things to think of. If papa is good, I will not think of leaving him for ten years.”
“Oh, yes; I have heard girls say that before,” said Mrs. Chiley; “but they always changed their minds. You would not like to be an old maid, Lucilla; and in ten years—”
“I should have begun to go off a little, no doubt,” said Miss Marjoribanks. “No, I can’t say I wish to be an old maid. Can they be coming upstairs already, do you think? Oh, it is Tom, I suppose,” said Lucilla, with a little indignation. But when They did make their appearance, which was at a tolerably early period—for a return to the drawing-room was quite a novelty for Dr. Marjoribanks’s friends, and tempted them accordingly—Miss Marjoribanks was quite ready to receive them. And just before ten o’clock, when Mrs. Chiley began to think of going home, Lucilla, without being asked, and without indeed a word of preface, suddenly went to the piano, and before anybody knew, had commenced to sing. She was a great deal too sensible to go into high art on this occasion, or to electrify her father’s friends with her newly-acquired Italian, or even with German, as some young ladies do. She sang them a ballad out of one of those treasures of resuscitated ballads which the new generation had then begun to dig out of the bowels of the earth. There was not, to tell the truth, a great deal of music in it, which proved Lucilla’s disinterestedness. “I only sang it to amuse you,” she said, when all the world crowded to the piano; and for that night she was not
