Sara's
manner implied that these unimportant details did not count for
much, balanced against the lack of a pink-and-white skin and
dimpled elbows; but she was generous enough not to blame me.
"When Betty is twenty-five," I said patiently--I had grown used
to speaking patiently to Sara--"she will be a magnificent woman--
far handsomer than you ever were, Sara, in your pinkest and
whitest prime. Where are your eyes, my dear lady, that you can't
see the promise of loveliness in Betty?"
"Betty is seventeen, and she is as lanky and brown as ever she
was," sighed Sara. "When I was seventeen I was the belle of the
county and had had five proposals. I don't believe the thought
of a lover has ever entered Betty's head."
"I hope not," I said shortly. Somehow, I did not like the
suggestion. "Betty is a child yet. For pity's sake, Sara, don't
go putting nonsensical ideas into her head."
"I'm afraid I can't," mourned Sara, as if it were something to be
regretted. "You have filled it too full of books and things like
that. I've every confidence in your judgment, Stephen--and
really you've done wonders with Betty. But don't you think
you've made her rather too clever? Men don't like women who are
too clever. Her poor father, now--he always said that a woman
who liked books better than beaux was an unnatural creature."
I didn't believe Jack had ever said anything so foolish.
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