“Quite a domestic scene!” the sly old lady remarked.  “Papa, looking like a saint in a picture, with flowers in his hand.  Papa’s spoiled child always wanting something, and always getting it.  And papa’s governess, so sweetly fresh and pretty that I should certainly fall in love with her, if I had the advantage of being a man.  You have no doubt remarked Herbert—­I think I hear the bell; shall we go to lunch?—­you have no doubt, I say, remarked what curiously opposite styles Catherine and Miss Westerfield present; so charming, and yet such complete contrasts.  I wonder whether they occasionally envy each other’s good looks?  Does my daughter ever regret that she is not Miss Westerfield?  And do you, my dear, some times wish you were Mrs. Linley?”

“While we are about it, let me put a third question,” Linley interposed.  “Are you ever aware of it yourself, Mrs. Presty, when you are talking nonsense?”

He was angry, and he showed it in that feeble reply.  Sydney felt the implied insult offered to her in another way.  It roused her to the exercise of self-control as nothing had roused her yet.  She ignored Mrs. Presty’s irony with a composure worthy of Mrs. Presty herself.  “Where is the woman,” she said, “who would not wish to be as beautiful as Mrs. Linley—­and as good?”

“Thank you, my dear, for a compliment to my daughter:  a sincere compliment, no doubt.  It comes in very neatly and nicely,” Mrs. Presty acknowledged, “after my son-in-law’s little outbreak of temper.  My poor Herbert, when will you understand that I mean no harm?  I am an essentially humorous person; my wonderful spirits are always carrying me away.  I do assure you, Miss Westerfield, I don’t know what worry is.  My troubles—­deaths in the family, and that sort of thing—­seem to slip off me in a most remarkable manner.  Poor Mr. Norman used to attribute it to my excellent digestion.  My second husband would never hear of such an explanation as that.  His high ideal of women shrank from allusions to stomachs.  He used to speak so nicely (quoting some poet) of the sunshine of my breast.  Vague, perhaps,” said Mrs. Presty, modestly looking down at the ample prospect of a personal nature which presented itself below her throat, “but so flattering to one’s feelings.  There’s the luncheon bell again, I declare!  I’ll run on before and tell them you are coming.  Some people might say they wished to be punctual.  I am truth itself, and I own I don’t like to be helped to the underside of the fish. Au revoir! Do you remember, Miss Westerfield, when I asked you to repeat au revoir as a specimen of your French?  I didn’t think much of your accent.  Oh, dear me, I didn’t think much of your accent!”

Kitty looked after her affluent grandmother with eyes that stared respectfully in ignorant admiration.  She pulled her father’s coat-tail, and addressed herself gravely to his private ear.  “Oh, papa, what noble words grandmamma has!”