"Then she has not attained their holiness in your estimation? She is too
earthly still?"
"She is my dear and noble lady, and to know her is to love her," replied
Barbara, her brown, affectionate eyes swimming in tears at the wilful
perversion of her words. "May I beg, Lady Frances, that you will
condescend not to question so poor and simple a girl as myself on what I
know so little of?"
"There you are again in error, Barbara," retorted her tormentor, who,
like most wits, cherished a jest more than the feelings of those she
jested with; "I condescend when questioning, not when silent."
Barbara made no reply, and Lady Frances, who was, at the same time,
pulling to pieces a superb fan of ostrich feathers, proceeded to open
her light battery against Constantia.
"How is Sir Robert this morning? I wish he were rid of the rheumatism,
and with us again. I have hardly seen him since the valiant De Guerre
made his appearance among us, except at dinner; and, indeed, he looks
ill, though--heigh ho!--I wish all papas were as accommodating, and let
their daughters flirt with whom they like."
"Flirt, Lady Frances?"
"Yes, flirt, Mistress Cecil! Is there any thing appalling in the word?
though I believe it somewhat of the newest. Now, poor I have no skill in
these matters! If I see a pretty fellow, I care not who knows it; I
like a jest, a laugh, tempered with all rightful modesty. I do not prim
my mouth, tutor my eyes into sobriety, nor say Amen, like old Will's
Macbeth, to those who say 'God bless us!' I laugh my laugh, and look my
look, and say my say, though I am youngest, and, by God's grace, wildest
of his Highness the Protector's children."
"Where got you your gay spirit, Lady Frances?" said Constantia, rising
and stepping towards her.
"My mother is a discreet matron as need be, but my father was not always
one of the gloomy rulers of this gloomy land: he had his wild days,
though it is treason to speak of them now; and, in sooth, he sometimes
forgets that young blood runs swifter than old--How he lectures poor
Richard!"
"The Lord Richard is not cast in his great father's mould; he is a
gentler and a feebler spirit; one who loves to hear of, or to read of,
great deeds, rather than to act them. Lady Fauconberg is more like your
father."
"My sister Mary would certainly have made a fine man. It was one of
nature's blunders to convert such coarse clay into a woman."