"THEY didn't notice anything," she said. "So far as they were
concerned, mamma, it was one of the finest coughs you ever coughed."
"Who were 'they'?" asked her father. "Whom did you see?"
"Only the mother and daughter," Mary answered. "Mrs. Sheridan is
dumpy and rustly; and Miss Sheridan is pretty and pushing--dresses by
the fashion magazines and talks about New York people that have their
pictures in 'em. She tutors the mother, but not very successfully--
partly because her own foundation is too flimsy and partly because
she began too late. They've got an enormous Moor of painted plaster
or something in the hall, and the girl evidently thought it was to
her credit that she selected it!"
"They have oil-paintings, too," added Mrs. Vertrees, with a glance of
gentle price at the Landseers. "I've always thought oil-paintings in
a private house the worst of taste."
"Oh, if one owned a Raphael or a Titian!" said Mr. Vertrees, finishing
the implication, not in words, but with a wave of his hand. "Go on,
Mary. None of the rest of them came in? You didn't meet Mr. Sheridan
or--" He paused and adjusted a lump of coal in the fire delicately
with the poker.
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