Whitney and I, and
hardly a soul that counts was here. Mrs. Van Dam had a convenient
headache; I haven't seen her since Peggy's wedding. If she had not been so
very civil--she and Mrs. Henry--I might think that even then she suspected
that Strathay--
There were a few correct, vapid young men in gray trousers and long frock
coats among our guests that day, but none worth serious attention. And the
women!
One creature tucked tracks under the tea cloth, whereat Mrs. Whitney's
pinched nose was elevated. Ethel saw the action--in spite of her mother
and sister, the poor girl clings to me; I suppose it's natural that
_she_ should love beauty--and hopping round the table at the first
chance, she pulled out one, chuckling mightily.
"'Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain,'" she quoted in undertone; "oh,
Nelly, take your share of the unco guid and the riders of hobby horses,
and be thankful it's no larger."
Ethel doesn't know how great it is. There was the woman who insists on
gloating over me as a proof of the superiority of her sex; the woman who
had written a book, the woman who would talk about Karma, and the woman--
there was more than one--who would talk about the Earl.
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