Part 17

"I'm afraid you will find me a very husky myth," Croyden answered.

"'Husky' is scarcely the correct word, Mr. Croyden; animated would be better, I think. We scholars, you know, do not like to hear a word used in a perverted sense."

She waddled to a chair and settled into it. Croyden shot an amused glance toward Miss Carrington, and received one in reply.

"No, I suppose not," he said, amiably. "But, then, you know, I am not a scholar."

Miss Erskine smiled in a superior sort of way.

"Very few of us are properly careful of our mode of speech," she answered. "And, oh! Mr. Croyden, I hope you intend to open Clarendon, so as to afford those of us who care for such things, the pleasure of studying the pictures, and the china, and the furniture. I am told it contains a Stuart and a Peale--and they should not be hidden from those who can appreciate them."

"I assume you're talking of pictures," said Croyden.

"I am, sir,--most assuredly!" the dame answered.

"Well, I must confess ignorance, again," he replied. "I wouldn't know a Stuart from a--chromo."

Miss Erskine gave a little shriek of horror.

"I do not believe it, Mr. Croyden!--you're playing on my credulity. I shall have to give you some instructions. I will lecture on Stuart and Peale, and the painters of their period, for your especial delectation--and soon, very soon!"

"I'm afraid it would all be wasted," said Croyden. "I'm not fond of art, I confess--except on the commercial side; and if I've any pictures, at Clarendon, worth money, I'll be for selling them."

"Oh! Mrs. Carrington! Will you listen--did you ever hear such heresy?" she exclaimed. "I can't believe it of you, Mr. Croyden. Let me lend you an article on Stuart to read. I shall bring it out to Clarendon to-morrow morning--and you can let me look at all the dear treasures, while you peruse it."

"Mr. Croyden has an appointment with me to-morrow, Amelia," said Carrington, quickly--and Croyden gave him a look of gratitude.

"It will be but a pleasure deferred, then, Mr. Croyden," said Miss Erskine, impenetrable in her self conceit. "The next morning will do, quite as well--I shall come at ten o'clock--What a lovely evening this is, Mrs. Carrington!" preparing to patronize her hostess.

The Captain snorted with sudden anger, and, abruptly excusing himself, disappeared in the library. Miss Carrington stayed a moment, then, with a word to Croyden, that she would show him the article now, before the others came, if Miss Erskine would excuse them a moment, bore him off.

"What do you think of her?" she demanded.

"Pompous and stupid--an irritating nuisance, I should call her."

"She's more!--she is the most arrogant, self-opinionated, self-complacent, vapid piece of humanity in this town or any other town. She irritates me to the point of impoliteness. She never sees that people don't want her. She's as dense as asphalt."

"It is very amusing!" Croyden interjected.

"At first, yes--pretty soon you will be throwing things at her--or wanting to."

"She's art crazy," he said. "Dilettanteism gone mad."

"It isn't only Art. She thinks she's qualified to speak on every subject under the sun, Literature--Bridge--Teaching--Music. Oh, she is intolerable!"

"What fits her for assuming universal knowledge?" asked Croyden.

"Heaven only knows! She went away to some preparatory school, and finished off with another that teaches pedagogy. Straightway she became an adept in the art of instruction, though, when she tried it, she had the whole academy by the ears in two weeks, and the faculty asked her to resign. Next, she got some one to take her to Europe--spent six weeks in looking at a lot of the famous paintings, with the aid of a guide book and a catalogue, and came home prepared to lecture on Art--and, what's more, she has the effrontery to do it--for the benefit of Charity, she takes four-fifths of the proceeds, and Charity gets the balance.

"Music came next. She read the lives of Chopin and Wagner and some of the other composers, went to a half dozen symphony concerts, looked up theory, voice culture, and the like, in the encyclopædias, and now she's a critic! Literature she imbibed from the bottle, I suppose--it came easy to her! And she passes judgment upon it with the utmost ease and final authority. And as for Bridge! She doesn't hesitate to arraign Elwell, and we, of the village, are the very dirt beneath her feet. I hear she's thinking of taking up Civic Improvement. I hope it is true--she'll likely run up against somebody who won't hesitate to tell her what an idiot she is."

"Why do you tolerate her?" Croyden asked. "Why don't you throw her out of society, metaphorically speaking."

"We can't: she belongs--which is final with us, you know. Moreover, she has imposed on some, with her assumption of superiority, and they kowtow to her in a way that is positively disgusting."