“But you were?” she observed, turning to Emma. “And army—of course?” in a confidential key. [69] [69] “No. My husband had an appointment at the court of the Rajah of Jam-Jam-More. He was his medical adviser.” “Ah, I understand”—in a patronizing key—“a native doctor!” “Oh no!” bursting into a merry laugh; “doctor to a native prince.” “Dear me! Is it not the same thing? How nice this room looks! Your own pretty things, I am sure. What quantities of charming photographs! May I peep at them?”—rising with a sprightly air. “Oh, certainly, with pleasure. But they are chiefly Indian friends—and I doubt if you will find them interesting.” “I am always interested in other people’s friends. But what do I behold?”—striking an attitude—“a bunch of peacock’s feathers! So unlucky! Why do you keep them, dear Mrs. Hayes?” [70] [70] “They belong to Mrs. Gabb—not to me—you must ask her.” “And you are not superstitious? Table-turning, palmistry, second sight, planchette: do you believe in any of those?” “I don’t think I have much faith in any of them—no, not even planchette—though I heard a horrible story of a planchette who aggravated inquirers by writing such horrible things, that one man, in a rage, pitched it into the fire when it immediately gave a diabolical scream, and flew up the chimney.” At this little anecdote I broke into a loud laugh—I invariably did so. “Of course, that was arrant nonsense!” remarked Miss Skuce, carefully replacing the peacock’s feathers, and recommencing a tour of inspection. I watched her attentively, with her pointed nose, near-sighted eyes, looped-[71]up skirts, with a rim of chalky mud, and square-toed laced boots—shaped like pie-dishes—as she made a deliberate examination of Emma’s little gallery, throwing us remarks over her shoulder from time to time. [71]
Prev.
Back
Top