“A very quiet, sweet woman,” said Miss Clara, “and very unlike her husband. He is a very dashing, military sort of man.”
“Oh, now I remember,” she said. “I’m sure he called here, while we were settling in. But Arthur and I were undoing the drawing-room carpet, so I had to say we were out. Do tell me some more. What do you all do?”
“We find our days very full,” she said. “Household duties take up a good deal of our time, and then we have our relaxations. My sister’s great hobby is literary work.”
“Oh, Phœbe!” ejaculated Miss Clara, blushing.
“Oh, but how delightful!” put in Jeannie. “Do you write much?”
“Clara has had fourteen poems in the Wroxton Chronicle,” said Miss Phœbe, with proper pride, “and another appears next week.”
“Perhaps, if you are so kind as to take an interest in what I do,” said Miss Clara, “you would allow me, Miss Avesham, to send you a copy. It would be a great pleasure. The editor always sends me half a dozen copies.”
“That would be very nice of you,” said Jeannie. “And what is your hobby, Miss Clifford?”
“My sister plays the mandolin beautifully,” said Miss Clara. “She was a pupil of Professor Rimanez.”
“Why, how charming!” said Jeannie. “Do bring it round here some day, Miss Clifford, and we will have duets. I, too, play a little.”
“It would be a great pleasure,” said Miss Clifford, “but I am only a very poor performer.”
The two Miss Cliffords were thawing like icicles in June. They hardly remembered that they were having tea alone with the daughter and sister of a peer.
“Then there is the Ladies’ Literary Union,” said Miss Clara. “We meet every fortnight, and very improving and sometimes entertaining pieces are read.”
“All the members read papers in turn, I suppose,” said Jeannie.
“Yes, and then we discuss the paper. Next week we have a great treat. Mrs. Collingwood is going to read us a paper on The Downward Tendency of Modern Fiction. I got the notice this morning. Mrs. Collingwood is a great critic, but rather severe, so my sister and I think.”
“Mrs. Collingwood?” asked Jeannie. “Oh, yes, I remember her; she called the other day. I thought she was rather severe, too. I am afraid she was very much shocked at my not knowing what the Girls’ Friendly Society was. But how should I know? I don’t think there is one in London. Oh, yes, she must be a teetotaler--so my aunt and I thought. Is that so?”