“You have been to Hopetoun, I know.”

“Yes, but don’t mix that up with ordinary tea-parties That is an experience to keep apart.  She holds the imagination, that old woman, with her sharp tongue, and her haggard, beautiful eyes, and her dead sons.  To know Mrs. Hope and her daughter is something to be thankful for.”

“I quite agree.  The Hopes do much to leaven the lump.  But I expect you find it rather a lump.”

“Honestly, I don’t.  I’m not being superior, please don’t think so, or charitable, or pretending to find good in everything, but I do like the Priorsford people.  Some of them are interesting, and nearly all of them are dears.”

“Even Mrs. Duff-Whalley?”

“Well, she is rather a caricature, but there are oddly nice bits about her, if only she weren’t so overpoweringly opulent.  The ospreys in her hat seem to shriek money, and her furs smother one, and that house of hers remains so starkly new.  If only creepers would climb up and hide its staring red-and-white face, and ivy efface some of the decorations, but no—­I expect she likes it as it is.  But there is something honest about her very vulgarity.  She knows what she wants and goes straight for it; and she isn’t a fool.  The daughter is.  She was intended by nature to be a dull young woman with a pretty face, but not content with that she puts on an absurdly skittish manner—­oh, so ruthlessly bright—­talks what she thinks is smart slang, poses continually, and wears clothes that would not be out of place at Ascot, but are a positive offence to the little grey town.  I hadn’t realised how gruesome provincial smartness could be until I met Muriel Duff-Whalley.”

“Oh, poor Muriel!” Jean protested.  “You’ve done for her anyway.  But you’re wrong in thinking her stupid.  She only comes to The Rigs when she isn’t occupied with smart friends and is rather dull—­I don’t see her in her more exalted moments; but I assure you, after she has done talking about ‘the County,’ and after the full blast of ‘dear Lady Tweedie’ is over, she is a very pleasant companion, and has nice delicate sorts of thoughts.  She’s really far too clever to be as silly as she sometimes is—­I can’t quite understand her.  Perhaps she does it to please her mother.”

“Jean’s disgustingly fond of finding out the best in people,” Pamela objected.

“Priorsford is a most charming town,” said Mr. Elliot, “but I never find its inhabitants interesting.”

“No,” Jean said, “but you don’t try, do you?  You stay here in your ‘wild glen sae green,’ and only have your own friends to visit you—­”

“Are you,” Pamela asked Lewis, “like a woman I know who boasts that she knows no one in her country place, but gets her friends and her fish from London?”

“No, I’m not in the least exclusive, only rather blate, and, I suppose, uninterested.  Do you know, I was rather glad to hear you begin to slang the unfortunate Miss Duff-Whalley.  It was more like the Pamela Reston I used to know.  I didn’t recognise her in the tolerant, all-loving lady.”