“It's the double wedding and the departure from the ancestral mansion which is casting shadows over my too susceptible heart and a glamour over this prosaic old room with its solid Philistine furniture,” and Frances pretended to conceal her rising emotion behind a fan. “Your already matronly staidness, Gerty, is incapable of entering into such moods. It is a mercy one daughter, at least--I think there are two--reproduces mother, and can never be accused of sentiment--and such a blessing for the Rector! It is a rule, one would say from observation, that clergymen choose matter-of-fact and managing wives, as a check, I suppose, on their own unworldliness and enthusiasm. As for me, so frivolous and... affectionate, poor papa must have the entire responsibility,” and Frances sighed audibly. “Are you really deceived by mother's composure and reserve?” Gertrude's quiet tone emphasized the contrast between her refined face and Frances' Spanish beauty. “Strangers count her cold as marble, and I can excuse them, for they judge her in society. We ought to know better, and she has always seemed to me the very type of loyalty and faithfulness.” “Of course she is the dearest mater ever was, and far too unselfish, and she has been most patient with her wayward youngest daughter; but she is--well, I could not say that she is a creature of emotion.” “You believe, I suppose,”--Gertrude was slightly nettled--“in women who kiss frantically on meeting, first one cheek and then the other, and sign themselves 'with a thousand remembrances and much love, yours most affectionately,' who adopt a new friend every month, and marry three times for companionship.” “Gertrude, I am ashamed of you; you are most provoking and unjust; my particular detestations, as you know very well, are a couple of girls' arms round each other's waists--studying one another's dresses all the time--and a widow who marries again for protection,--it's a widower who says companionship,--but I enjoy your eloquence; it will be a help to Fred when he is sermon-making. You will collaborate--that is the correct word, isn't it?” “None of us will ever know how deep and strong is the mater's love,” continued Gertrude, giving no heed to her sister's badinage; “she cannot speak, and so she will always be misunderstood, as quiet people are. Did you ever notice that she writes her letters on that old desk, instead of using the escritoire? that is because it was father's; and although she never mentions his name, I believe mother would rather starve than leave this house or part with a chair that was in it when he was living.