He spoke disjointedly, vaguely, but the girl nodded.
“I think I understand, Olaf. Only, it is
a two-edged rivet—to mix metaphors—and
keeps us stiffnecked against all sorts of calls.
No, I am not sure that the thing one cannot do because
one is what one is, proves to be always a cause for
international jubilations and fireworks on the lawn.”
Thus Lichfield, as to its staid trousered citizenry,
fell prostrate at Miss Stapylton’s feet, and
as to the remainder of its adults, vociferously failed
to see anything in the least remarkable in her appearance,
and avidly took and compared notes as to her personal
apparel.
“You have brought Asmodeus into Lichfield,”
Colonel Musgrave one day rebuked Miss Stapylton, as
they sat in the garden. “The demon of pride
and dress is rampant everywhere—er—Patricia.
Even Agatha does her hair differently now; and in
church last Sunday I counted no less than seven duplicates
of that blue hat of yours.”
Miss Stapylton was moved to mirth. “Fancy
your noticing a thing like that!” said she.
“I didn’t know you were even aware I had
a blue hat.”
“I am no judge,” he conceded, gravely,
“of such fripperies. I don’t pretend
to be. But, on the other hand, I must plead guilty
to deriving considerable harmless amusement from your
efforts to dress as an example and an irritant to
all Lichfield.”
“You wouldn’t have me a dowd, Olaf?”
said she, demurely. “I have to be neat
and tidy, you know. You wouldn’t have me
going about in a continuous state of unbuttonedness
and black bombazine like Mrs. Rabbet, would you?”
Rudolph Musgrave debated as to this. “I
dare say,” he at last conceded, cautiously,
“that to the casual eye your appearance is somewhat
—er—more pleasing than that of
our rector’s wife. But, on the other hand——”
“Olaf, I am embarrassed by such fulsome eulogy.
Mrs. Rabbet isn’t a day under forty-nine.
And you consider me somewhat better-looking
than she is!”
He inspected her critically, and was confirmed in
his opinion.
“Olaf”—coaxingly—“do
you really think I am as ugly as that?”
“Pouf!” said the colonel airily; “I
dare say you are well enough.”
“Olaf”—and this was even more
cajoling—“do you know you’ve
never told me what sort of a woman you most admire?”
“I don’t admire any of them,” said
Colonel Musgrave, stoutly. “They are too
vain and frivolous—especially the pink-and-white
ones,” he added, unkindlily.
“Cousin Agatha has told me all about your multifarious
affairs of course. She depicts you as a sort
of cardiacal buccaneer and visibly gloats over the
tale of your enormities. She is perfectly dear
about it. But have you never—cared—for
any woman, Olaf?”
Precarious ground, this! His eyes were fixed
upon her now. And hers, for doubtless sufficient
reasons, were curiously intent upon anything in the
universe rather than Rudolph Musgrave.
