survey by resting his eyes on Mrs. Westmore’s charming petulant face.
“It all depends,” he replied axiomatically, “how large an income you require.”
Mr. Tredegar uttered this remark with the air of one who pronounces on an important point in law: his lightest observation seemed a decision handed down from the bench to which he had never ascended. He restored the cigar to his lips, and sought approval in Mrs. Ansell’s expressive eye.
“Ah, that’s it, Bessy. You’ve that to remember,” the older lady murmured, as if struck by the profundity of the remark.
Mrs. Westmore made an impatient gesture. “We’ve always had money enough—Dick was perfectly satisfied.” Her voice trembled a little on her husband’s name. “And you don’t know what the place is like by daylight—and the people who come to call!”
“Of course you needn’t see any one now, dear,” Mrs. Ansell reminded her, “except the Halford Gaineses.”
“I am sure they’re bad enough. Juliana Gaines will say: ‘My dear, is that the way widows’ veils are worn in New York this autumn?’ and Halford will insist on our going to one of those awful family dinners, all Madeira and terrapin.”
“It’s too early for terrapin,” Mrs. Ansell smiled consolingly; but Bessy had reverted to her argument.
[ 35 ]
