"Oh, Mr Lydgate!" said Mary, with an unmistakable lapse into indifference. "You want to know something about him," she added, not choosing to indulge Rosamond's indirectness.
"Merely, how you like him."
"There is no question of liking at present. My liking always wants some little kindness to kindle it. I am not magnanimous enough to like people who speak to me without seeming to see me."
"Is he so haughty?" said Rosamond, with heightened satisfaction. "You know that he is of good family?"
"No; he did not give that as a reason."
"Mary! you are the oddest girl. But what sort of looking man is he? Describe him to me."
"How can one describe a man? I can give you an inventory: heavy eyebrows, dark eyes, a straight nose, thick dark hair, large solid white hands—and—let me see—oh, an exquisite cambric pocket-handkerchief. But you will see him. You know this is about the time of his visits."
Rosamond blushed a little, but said, meditatively, "I rather like a haughty manner. I cannot endure a rattling young man."
"I did not tell you that Mr Lydgate was haughty; but il y en a pour tous les goûts, as little Mamselle used to say, and if any girl can choose
