This was the kind of talk that Emily knew she would have to endure; it was unutterably repugnant to her.  She had observed in successive holidays the growth of a spirit in Jessie Cartwright more distinctly offensive than anything which declared itself in her sisters’ gabble, however irritating that might be.  The girl’s mind seemed to have been sullied by some contact, and previous indications disposed Emily to think that this Mrs. Tichborne was very probably a source of evil.  She was the wife of an hotel-keeper, the more vulgar for certain affectations of refinement acquired during bar-maidenhood in London, and her intimacy with the Cartwrights was now of long standing.  It was Jessie whom she specially affected; with her Jessie had just been spending a fortnight at the seaside.  The evil caught from Mrs. Tichborne, or from some one of similar character, did not associate itself very naturally with the silly naivete which marked the girl; she had the air of assuming the objectionable tone as a mark of cleverness.  Emily could not trust herself to utter the kind of comment which would naturally have risen to her lips; it would be practically useless, and her relations to Jessie were not such as could engender affectionate zeal in a serious attempt to overcome evil influences.  Emily was not of the women whose nature it is to pursue missionary enterprise; instead of calling forth her energies, a situation like the present threw her back upon herself; she sought a retreat from disgust in the sheltered purity of her own heart.  Outwardly she became cold; her face expressed that severity which was one side of her character.

’Don’t you think it would be better if we made a beginning this morning?’ she said, as soon as another pause in the flow of chatter gave her opportunity.

‘What a one you are for work!’ Jessie protested.  ’You seem to take to it naturally, and yet I’m sure it isn’t a natural thing.  Just think of having to muddle over French grammar at my age!  And I know very well it ’ll never come to anything.  Can you imagine me teaching?  I always hated school, and I hate the thought of being a governess.  It’s different with you; you’re right down clever, and you make people take an interest in you.  But just think of me!  Why I should be thought no more of than a servant.  I suppose I should have to make friends with the milkman and the butcher’s boy; I don’t see who else I should have to talk to.  How’s a girl to get married if she spends all her time in a nursery teaching children grammar?  You don’t seem to care whether you’re ever married or not, but I do, and it’s precious hard to have all my chances taken away.

This was Jessie’s incessant preoccupation; she could not talk for five minutes without returning to it.  Herein she only exaggerated her sisters’ habits of mind.  The girls had begun to talk of ‘sweethearts’ and husbands before they were well out of the nursery.  In earlier years Emily had only laughed at what she called such foolishness; she could not laugh now.  Such ways of thinking and speaking were a profanation of all she held holiest; words which she whispered in trembling to her heart were vulgarised and defiled by use upon these tinkling tongues; it was blasphemy against her religion.