Stately, gracious, even queenly, were epithets
which were not spared her; it would have been refreshing to find some
Diogenes of a journalist who would have called her, in round set terms,
discontented, mutinous, scornful of the ideal she represented, a very
hot-bed of the faults the beauty of whose absence was declared in her
dignified demeanour. Now what May looked, that Fanny was; but poor
Fanny, being slight of build, small in feature, and gay in manner, got
no credit for her exalted virtues and could not be pressed into service
as the type of them. For certainly types must look typical. May's
comfort in these circumstances was that Marchmont's perfect breeding and
instinctive avoidance of display, of absurdity, even of betraying any
heat of emotion, saved her from the usual troubles which an unsatisfied
lover entails on his mistress. He looked for her no doubt, but with no
greater visible perturbation than if she had been his handkerchief.
An evening or two later Dick Benyon took her in to dinner. Entirely in
concession to him--for the subject had passed from her own thoughts--she
asked, "Well, how's your genius going on?" Before the meal was over she
regretted her question.
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