nnot be very strong,
as she sat down through the Psalms," enters.
At first she seems uncertain _which_ to greet as bride and hostess;
indeed, I can see that her earliest impulse is to turn from the small
insignificance in silk, to the tall little loveliness in cotton, and as
I perceive it, a little arrow--not of jealousy, for, thank God, I never
was jealous of our Barbara--never--but of pain at my so palpable
inferiority, shoots through all my being. But Barbara draws back, and
our visitor perceives her error. We sit down, but the brunt of the talk
falls on Barbara. I am never glib with strangers, and I throw in a word
only now and then, all my attention and observation having passed into
my eyes. A plain woman, indeed! I have always been convinced of the
unbecomingness of church, but _now_ more than ever am I fully persuaded
of it. And yet she is not pretty! Her mouth is very wide, that is
perhaps why she so rarely laughs; her nose cannot say much for itself;
her cheeks are thin, and I _think_--nay, let me tell truth--I _hope_
that in a low gown she would be _scraggy_, so slight even to meagreness
is she! But how thoroughly made the most of! What a shapeless
pin-cushion fit my gown seems beside the admirable French sit of hers!
How hard, how metallic its tint beside the indefinite softness of that
sweep of smoke-color! What a stiff British erection my hair feels beside
the careless looseness of these shining twists! What a fine, slight
hand, as if cut in faint gray stone!
At each fresh detail that I note, Musgrave's anecdote gains ever more
and more probability; and my heart sinks ever lower and more low.
_One_ hope remains to me. Perhaps she may be stupid! Certainly she is
not _affording_.
How heavily poor Barbara is driving through the fine weather and the
_Times_! and how little more than "yes" and "no" does she get! I take
heart. Roger loves people who talk--people who are merry and make jests.
It was my most worthless gabble that first drew him toward me. Cheered
and emboldened by this thought, I swoop down like a sudden eagle to the
rescue.
"You know Rog--, my husband, do not you?" I say, with an abrupt
bluntness that contrasts finely with the languid gentleness with which
her little remarks steal out like mice. _Mine_ rushes forth like a
desolating bomb-shell.
"A little--yes."
"You knew him in India, did not you?" say I, unable to resist the
temptation of seizing this opportunity to gratify my cu
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