They arrived a little before dinner; just in time to get to their rooms and dress. But Mary Quince enlivened my toilet with eloquent1 descriptions of the youthful Captain whom she had met in the gallery, on his way to his room, with the servant, and told me how he stopped to let her pass, and how “he smiled so ‘ansom.”

 

I was very young then, you know, and more childish even than my years; but this talk of Mary Quince’s interested me, I must confess, considerably2. I was painting all sort of portraits of this heroic soldier, while affecting, I am afraid, a hypocritical indifference3 to her narration4, and I know I was very nervous and painstaking5 about my toilet that evening. When I went down to the drawing-room, Lady Knollys was there, talking volubly to my father as I entered — a woman not really old, but such as very young people fancy aged6 — energetic, bright, saucy7, dressed handsomely in purple satin, with a good deal of lace, and a rich point — I know not how to call it — not a cap, a sort of head-dress — light and simple, but grand withal, over her greyish, silken hair.

 

Rather tall, by no means stout8, on the whole a good firm figure with something kindly9 in her look. She got up, quite like a young person, and coming quickly to meet me with a smile —

 

“My young cousin!” she cried, and kissed me on both cheeks. “You know who I am? Your cousin Monica — Monica Knollys — and very glad, dear, to see you, though she has not set eyes on you since you were no longer than that paper-knife. Now come here to the lamp, for I must look at you. Who is she like? Let me see. Like your poor mother, I think, my dear; but you’ve the Aylmer nose — yes — not a bad nose either, and, come! very good eyes, upon my life — yes, certainly something of her poor mother — not a bit like you, Austin.”

 

My father gave her a look as near a smile as I had seen there for a long time, shrewd, cynical10, but kindly too, and said he —

 

“So much the better, Monica, eh?”