'If you admire the Flemish type, as illustrated by Rubens, she was
lovely. A complexion of lilies and roses--cabbage roses, _bien entendu_,
which were apt to deepen into peonies after champagne and mayonaise at
Ascot or Sandown--a figure--oh--well--a tremendous figure--hair of an
auburn that touched perilously on the confines of red--large,
serviceable feet, and an appetite--the appetite of a ploughman's
daughter reared upon short commons.'
'You are very cruel to a girl who evidently admired you.'
'A fig for her admiration! She wanted to live in my house and spend my
money.'
'There goes the gong,' exclaimed Lesbia; 'pray let us go to breakfast.
You are hideously cynical, and I am wofully tired of you.'
And as they strolled back to the house, by lavender walk and rose
garden, and across the dewy lawn, Lesbia questioned herself as to
whether she was one whit better or more dignified than Isabella Trinder.
She wore her rue with a difference, that was all.
CHAPTER XXXV.
'ALL FANCY, PRIDE, AND FICKLE MAIDENHOOD.
Pages:
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680