“How the men stare at you, Elfride!” said the elder lady. “You will kill me quite, I am afraid.”
“Kill you?”
“As a diamond kills an opal in the same setting.”
“I have noticed several ladies and gentlemen looking at me,” said Elfride artlessly, showing her pleasure at being observed.
“My dear, you mustn’t say ‘gentlemen’ nowadays,” her stepmother answered in the tones of arch concern that so well became her ugliness. “We have handed over ‘gentlemen’ to the lower middle class, where the word is still to be heard at tradesmen’s balls and provincial tea-parties, I believe. It is done with here.”
“What must I say, then?”
“ ‘Ladies and men’ always.”
At this moment appeared in the stream of vehicles moving in the contrary direction a chariot presenting in its general surface the rich indigo hue of a midnight sky, the wheels and margins being picked out in delicate lines of ultramarine; the servants’ liveries were dark-blue coats and silver lace, and breeches of neutral Indian red. The whole concern formed an organic whole, and moved along behind a pair of dark chestnut geldings, who advanced in an indifferently zealous trot, very daintily performed, and occasionally shrugged divers points of their veiny surface as if they were rather above the business.
In this sat a gentleman with no decided characteristics more than that he somewhat resembled a good-natured commercial traveller of the superior class. Beside him was a lady with skim-milky eyes and complexion, belonging to the “interesting” class of women, where that class merges in the sickly, her greatest pleasure being apparently to enjoy nothing. Opposite this pair sat two little girls in white hats and blue feathers.
The lady saw Elfride, smiled and bowed, and touched her husband’s elbow, who turned and received Elfride’s movement of recognition with a gallant elevation of his hat. Then the two children held up their arms to Elfride, and laughed gleefully.
“Who is that?”
“Why, Lord Luxellian, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Swancourt, who with the vicar had been seated with her back towards them.
“Yes,” replied Elfride. “He is the one man of those I have seen here whom I consider handsomer than papa.”
“Thank you, dear,” said Mr. Swancourt.
“Yes; but your father is so much older. When Lord Luxellian gets a little further on in life, he won’t be half so good-looking as our man.”
“Thank you, dear, likewise,” said Mr. Swancourt.
“See,” exclaimed Elfride, still looking towards them, “how those little dears want me! Actually one of them is crying for me to come.”
“We were talking of bracelets just now. Look at Lady Luxellian’s,” said Mrs. Swancourt, as that baroness lifted up her arm to support one of the children. “It is slipping up her arm—too large by half. I hate to see daylight between a bracelet and a wrist; I wonder women haven’t better taste.”
“It is not on that account, indeed,” Elfride expostulated. “It is that her arm has got thin, poor thing. You cannot think how much she has altered in this last twelvemonth.”
The carriages were now nearer together, and there was an exchange of more familiar greetings between the two families. Then the Luxellians crossed over and drew up under the plane-trees, just in the rear of the Swancourts. Lord Luxellian alighted, and came forward with a musical laugh.
It was his attraction as a man. People liked him for those tones, and forgot that he had no talents. Acquaintances remembered Mr. Swancourt by his manner; they remembered Stephen Smith by his face, Lord Luxellian by his laugh.
Mr. Swancourt made some friendly remarks—among others things upon the heat.
“Yes,” said Lord Luxellian, “we were driving by a furrier’s window this afternoon, and the sight filled us all with such a sense of suffocation that we were glad to get away. Ha-ha!” He turned to Elfride. “Miss Swancourt, I have hardly seen or spoken to you since your literary feat was made public. I had no idea a chiel was taking notes down at quiet Endelstow, or I should certainly have put myself and friends upon our best behaviour. Swancourt, why didn’t you give me a hint!”
Elfride fluttered, blushed, laughed, said it was nothing to speak of, etc. etc.
“Well, I think you were rather unfairly treated by The Present; I certainly do. Writing a heavy review like that upon an elegant trifle like The Court of Kellyon Castle was absurd.”
“What?” said Elfride, opening her eyes. “Was I reviewed in The Present?”
“Oh yes; didn’t you see it? Why, it was four or five months ago!”
“No, I never saw it. How sorry I am! What a shame of my publishers! They promised to send me every notice that appeared.”
“Ah, then, I am almost afraid I have been giving you disagreeable information, intentionally withheld out of courtesy. Depend upon it they thought no good would come of sending it, and so would not pain you unnecessarily.”
“Oh no; I am indeed glad you have told me, Lord Luxellian. It is quite a mistaken kindness on their part. Is the review so much against me?” she inquired tremulously.
“No, no; not that exactly—though I almost forget its exact purport now. It was merely—merely sharp, you know—ungenerous, I might say. But really my memory does not enable me to speak decidedly.”
“We’ll drive to The Present office, and get one directly; shall we, papa?”
“If you are so anxious, dear, we will, or send. But tomorrow will do.”
“And do oblige me in a little matter now, Elfride,” said Lord Luxellian warmly, and looking as if he were sorry he had brought news that disturbed her. “I am in reality sent here as a special messenger by my little Polly and Katie to ask you to come into our carriage with them for a short time. I am just going to walk across
