Volume Ii Part 28 (1/2)
”Of what, Mrs. Evelyn? ? I beg your pardon.”
The lady's tone somewhat lowered.
”Are you a judge of roses, Mr. Carleton?”
”So far as to know a rose when I see it,” he answered, smiling, and with an imperturbable coolness that it quieted Fleda to hear.
”Ay, but the thing is,” said Constance, ”do you know twenty roses when you see them?”
”Miss Ringgan, Mr. Carleton,” said Mrs. Evelyn, ”has received a most beautiful supply this morning; but, like a true woman, she is not satisfied to enjoy unless she can enjoy intelligently ? they are strangers to us all, and she would like to know what name to give them; Mr. Thorn suggested that perhaps you might help us out of our difficulty.”
”With great pleasure, so far as I am able ? if my judgment may be exercised by day-light. I cannot answer for shades of green in the night-time.”
But he spoke with an ease and simplicity that left no mortal able to guess whether he had ever heard of a particular bunch of roses in his life before.
”You give me more of Eve in my character, Mrs. Evelyn, than I think belongs to me,” said Fleda, from her work at the far centre-table, which certainly did not get its name from its place in the room. ”My enjoyment to-day has not been in the least troubled by curiosity.”
Which none of the rest of the family could have affirmed.
”Do you mean to say, Mr. Carleton,” said Constance, ”that it is necessary to distinguish between shades of green in judging of roses?”
”It is necessary to make shades of distinction in judging of almost anything, Miss Constance. The difference between varieties of the same flower is often extremely nice.”
”I have read of magicians,” said Thorn, softly, bending down towards Fleda's work ? ”who did not need to see things to answer questions respecting them.”
Fleda thought that was a kind of magic remarkably common in the world; but even her displeasure could not give her courage to speak. It gave her courage to be silent, however; and Mr.
Thorn's best efforts, in a conversation of some length, could gain nothing but very uninterested rejoinders. A sudden pinch from Constance then made her look up, and almost destroyed her self-possession, as she saw Mr. Stackpole male his way into the room.
”I hope I find my fair enemy in a mollified humour,” he said, approaching them.
”I suppose you have repaired damages, Mr. Stackpole,” said Constance, ”since you venture into the region of broken windows again.”
”Mr. Stackpole declared there were none to repair,” said Mrs.
Evelyn, from the sofa.
”More than I knew of,” said the gentleman, laughing ? ”there were more than I knew of; but you see I court the danger, having rashly concluded that I might as well know all my weak points at once.”
”Miss Ringgan will break nothing to-night, Mr. Stackpole ? she promised me she would not.”
”Not even her silence?” said the gentleman.
”Is she always so desperately industrious?” said Mr. Thorn.
”Miss Ringgan, Mr. Stackpole,” said Constance, ”is subject to occasional fits of misanthropy, in which cases her retreating with her work to the solitude of the centre-table is significant of her desire to avoid conversation ? as Mr. Thorn has been experiencing.”
”I am happy to see that the malady is not catching, Miss Constance.”
”Mr. Stackpole,” said Constance, ”I am in a morose state of mind! ? Miss Ringgan, this morning, received a magnificent bouquet of roses, which, in the first place, I rashly appropriated to myself; and ever since I discovered my mistake, I have been meditating the renouncing of society ? it has excited more bad feelings than I thought had existence in my nature.”
”Mr. Stackpole,” said Mrs. Evelyn, ”would you ever have supposed that roses could be a cause of discord?”
Mr. Stackpole looked as if he did not exactly know what the ladies were driving at.