Home-Davis. "I thought she
would grow up like that."
"Yet there's a look in her eyes of Uncle Basil," Elinor amended,
brushing straight hair of a nondescript brown, which she admired because
it was long.
"With such a combination of qualities as she'll probably develop, she'd
much better have stayed in her convent," the elder woman went on.
"I wish to goodness she had," snapped Elinor.
"You are--er--thinking of Doctor Smythe, dear?"
"Ye-es--partly," the younger admitted, reluctantly; for there was
humiliation to her vanity in the admission. "Not that Arthur'd care for
that type of girl, particularly, or that he'd be disloyal to me--if he
were let alone. But you can see for yourself, mother--_is_ she the kind
that will let men alone? At dinner she made eyes even at the footman. I
was watching her."
"She can't have met any men, unless at that old Scotchwoman's house,"
replied Mrs. Home-Davis. "Perhaps even their Romish consciences would
have forced them to show her a few, before she took her vows--Catholic
young men, of course."
"Perhaps one of them decided her to break the vows."
"She hasn't really broken them, you know, Elinor. We must be just."
"Well, anyhow, she hasn't the air of an engaged person. And if she's
here when Arthur gets back to London, I feel in my bones, mother,
there'll be ructions."
"Arthur" was Doctor Smythe, a man not very young, whom Elinor Home-Davis
had known for some time; but it was only lately that she had begun to
hope he might ask her to marry him.
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