oo
delighted that it was ready now, and the more the better; her young
daughter, Rhoda, wearing a floppy smocked frock and no collar but a bead
necklace, coughed behind her; she looked pale and fatigued, and as if it
didn't matter in the least if it was never ready at all. She was being
talked to by a round-faced, fluffy-haired lady in a green dress and
pince-nez, who took an interest in the development of her deplorably
uncultured young mind--a Miss Barnett, who was painting pictures to
illustrate a book to be called "Venice, Her Spirit." The great hope for
young Rhoda, both Miss Barnett and Mr. Vyvian felt, was to widen the gulf
between her and her unspeakable mother. They, who quarrelled about
everything else, were united in this enterprise. The method adopted
was to snub Mrs. Johnson whenever she spoke. That was no doubt why, as
Peggy had told Peter, Rhoda blushed on those frequent occasions.

The party was completed by a very young curate, and an elderly spinster
with mittens and many ailments, the symptoms of which she lucidly
specified in a refined undertone to any lady who would listen; with
gentlemen, however, she was most discreet, except with the curate, who
complained that his cloth was no protection. Finally Hilary came in and
took the head of the table, and Peggy and the children took the other
end. Peter found himself between Mrs. Johnson and Miss Barnett, and
opposite Mr. Vyvian and Rhoda.

Mrs. Johnson began to be nice to him at once, in her cheery way.

"Know Venice?" and when Peter said, "Not yet," she told him, "Ah, you'll
like it, I know. So pleasant as it is. Particlerly for young people. It
gives me rheumatics, so much damp about. But my gel Rhoder is that fond
of it. Spends all her spare time--not as she's got much, poor gel--in the
gall'ries and that. Art, you know. She goes in for it, Rhoder does. I
don't, now. I'm a stupid old thing, as they'll all tell you." She nodded
cheerfully and inclusively at Mr. Vyvian and Rhoda and Miss Barnett. They
did not notice. Vyvian, toying disgustedly with his burnt minestra, was
saying in his contemptuous voice, "Of course, if you like _that_, you may
as well like the Frari monuments at once and have done."

Rhoda was crimson; she had made another mistake. Miss Barnett, who
disputed the office of mentor with Vyvian, whom she jealously disliked,
broke in, in her cheery chirp, "I don't agree with you, Mr. Vyvian. I
consider it a very fine example of Carpacci