The Nonesuch

“No, indeed I have not,” Miss Trent replied. “I never saw him, to my knowledge, and know no more of him than the rest of the world.” She added, with the glimmer of a smile: “The company he keeps was quite above my touch!”

“I daresay you didn’t wish for his acquaintance,” said Charlotte. “I’m sure I don’t: I hate beaux! And if he is coming here to hold up his nose at us all I hope he will go away again!”

“I expect he will,” said Miss Trent, threading her needle.

“Yes, that is what Papa says,” agreed Miss Chartley. “He thinks he can only be coming to settle with the lawyers, and perhaps to sell Broom Hall, for he can’t wish to live in it, can he? Papa says he has a very beautiful house in Gloucestershire, which has been in his family for generations. And if he is so very fine and fashionable he must think this a dull place, I daresay—though it is quite close to Harrogate, of course.”

“Harrogate!” said Courtenay contemptuously. “That won’t fadge! He won’t remain at Broom Hall above a sennight, I’ll be bound! There’s nothing to make him wish to stay, after all.”

“No?” said his cousin, a provocative smile on her exquisite countenance.

“No!” he stated, revolted by this odious self-satisfaction. “And if you think he has only to see you to fall in love with you you much mistake the matter! I dare swear he is acquainted with a score of girls prettier by far than you!”

“Oh, no!” she said, adding simply: “He couldn’t be!”

Miss Chartley protested involuntarily: “Oh, Tiffany, how can you? I beg your pardon, but indeed you shouldn’t—!’”

“It’s perfectly true!” argued Miss Wield. “I didn’t make my face, so why shouldn’t I say it’s beautiful? Everyone else does!”

Young Mr Underhill instantly entered a caveat, but Miss Chartley was silenced. Herself a modest girl, she was deeply shocked, but however much she might deprecate such vainglory honesty compelled her to acknowledge that Tiffany Wield was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen or imagined. Everything about her was perfection. Not the most spiteful critic could say of her that it was a pity she was too tall, or too short, or that her nose spoiled her loveliness, or that she was not so beautiful in profile: she was beautiful from every angle, thought Miss Chartley. Even her dusky locks, springing so prettily from a wide brow, curled naturally; and if attention was first attracted by her deep and intensely blue eyes, fringed by their long black lashes, closer scrutiny revealed that a little, straight nose, enchantingly curved lips, and a complexion like the bloom on a peach were equally worthy of admiration. She was only seventeen years of age, but her figure betrayed neither puppy-fat nor awkward angles; and when she opened her mouth it was seen that her teeth were like matched pearls. Until her return, a short time since, to Staples, where her childhood had been spent, Patience Chartley had been generally held to be the prettiest girl in the neighbourhood, but Tiffany had quite eclipsed her. Patience had been brought up to believe that one’s appearance was a matter of no importance, but when the parent who had inculcated one with this dictum said that It gave him pleasure merely to rest his eyes on Tiffany’s lovely face one might perhaps be pardoned for feeling just a trifle wistful. No one, thought Patience, observing herself in the mirror when she dressed her soft brown hair, was going to look twice at her when Tiffany was present. She accepted her inferiority meekly, so free from jealousy that she wished very much that Tiffany would not say such things as must surely repel her most devout admirers.

Apparently sharing her views, Mrs Underhill expostulated, saying in a voice which held more of pleading than censure: “Now, Tiffany-love! You shouldn’t talk like that! Whatever would people think if they was to hear you? It’s not becoming—and so, I’ll be bound, Miss Trent will tell you!”

“Much I care!”

“Well, that shows what a pea-goose you are!” struck in Charlotte, firing up in defence of her idol. “Because Miss Trent is much more genteel than you are, or any of us, and—”

“Thank you, Charlotte, that will do!”

“Well, it’s true!” muttered Charlotte rebelliously.

Ignoring her, Miss Trent smiled at Mrs Underhill, saying: “No, ma’am: not at all becoming, and not at all wise either.”

“Why not?” Tiffany demanded.

Miss Trent regarded her thoughtfully. “Well, it’s an odd circumstance, but I’ve frequently observed that whenever you boast of your beauty you seem to lose some of it. I expect it must be the change in your expression.”

Startled, Tiffany flew to gaze anxiously into the ornate looking-glass which hung above the fireplace. “Do I?” she asked naively. “Really do I, Ancilla?”