Part 80 (2/2)
”Do you never think it necessary to try to--improve your mind?”
”Does crewel-work improve the mind?” opening her eyes for an instant lazily.
”Certainly; in so far that it leaves time for reflection. There is something soothing about it that a.s.sists the mind. While one works one can reflect.”
”Can one?” naughtily: ”I couldn't. I can do any number of things, but I am almost positive I couldn't reflect. It means--doesn't it?--going over and over and over again disagreeable scenes, and remembering how much prettier one might have behaved under such and such circ.u.mstances. I call that not only wearying but unpleasant. No, I feel sure I am right.
I shall never, if I can help it, reflect.”
”Then you are content to be a mere b.u.t.terfly--an idler on the face of the earth all your days?” asks Florence, severely, taking the high and moral tone she has been successfully cultivating ever since her acquaintance with Mr. Boer.
”As long as I can. Surely when I marry it will be time enough to grow 'useful,' and go in for work generally. You see one can't avoid it then.
Keeping one's husband in order, I have been always told, is an onerous job.”
”You intend marrying, then?” Something in the other's tone has roused Florence to curiosity. She sits up and looks faintly interested.
”Yes.”
”Soon?”
”Perhaps.”
”You are serious?”
”Quite serious.”
”Ah!”
A pause. Miss Beauchamp takes up two shades of wool and examines them critically. They are so exactly alike that it can make little difference which she chooses. But she is methodical, and would die rather than make one false st.i.tch in a whole acre of canvas. Having made her choice of the two shades, she returns to the attack.
”I had no idea you liked your cousin so much,” she says.
”So much! How much?” says Lilian, quickly turning very red. Her cousin is a sore subject with her just now. ”I do not think we are speaking of Archibald.”
”No; but I thought you said----”
”Nothing of him, I am sure,” still hastily.
”Oh! I beg your pardon. I quite fancied----” Here she pauses, somewhat mystified. Then, ”You and he are very good friends, are you not?”
”Very,” coldly.
”And yet,” with an elephantine attempt at playfulness, ”I certainly did think last night some quarrel had arisen between you. He looked so savage when you were dancing with Captain Monk. His eyes are handsome, but at times I have noticed a gleam in them that might safely be termed dangerous.”
”Have you? I have not.”
”No? How strange! But no doubt when with you---- For my own part, I confess I should be quite afraid of him,--of annoying him, I mean.”
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