Certainly her profile is anything but perfect; her chin projects too much. In her old age, if she had a hook nose (which she has not), she would be a mere nut-cracker. Shall he tell her that? How many disagreeable things he might tell her! It puts him into quite a good humour with her to think of them. 'Now, about that badger, for instance,' says he. But at that, against her will, she laughs outright. 'Dear little beast!' she cries maliciously; 'so playful and affectionate! such a pet!' She has laughed. That is something gained, at all events. It is not a nice friendly laugh. On the contrary, it is a very rude, ill-natured one: she is obviously a rude, ill-natured girl; but it is a laugh. 'You can see for yourself,' pursues he, holding out one of the _menus_ for her inspection, 'that we are only at the first _entrée_; we shall have to sit beside each other for a good hour more. Lady Roupell does not want to talk to me; and your neighbour--I do not know who he is, and I will not ask you, because I know you would not answer me civilly--but whoever he is, he will not talk to you. I saw you try to make him, and he would not; he snubbed you. I was avenged! I was very glad!' Peggy would much rather not have laughed; but there is something that seems to her so ludicrous in the fact of her abortive advances to Mr. Evans having been overheard and triumphed at, that she cannot help yielding to a brief and stifled mirth at her own expense. And, after all, what he says is sense. He is a very bad man, and she dislikes him extremely; but to let him observe to her that the news from Afghanistan seems warlike; or to remark in return that she has never seen the root-crops look better, need not in the least detract from the thoroughness of her ill opinion of him, and may make the ensuing hour a shade less tedious to herself than would entire silence. So she turns her candid eyes, severely, serenely blue, for the first time, full upon him, and says: 'I think you are right; I think we had better talk.' But of course, at that sudden permission to talk, every possible topic of conversation flies out of his head. And yet as she remains, with her two blue eyes sternly fixed upon him, awaiting the question or questions that she has given him permission to put, he must say something; so he asks stupidly: 'Who is your neighbour?' 'Our vicar.' 'What is his name?' (How infinitely little he cares what the vicar's name is; but it gives him time.) 'E V A N S,' replies she, spelling very distinctly and slowly, afraid that she may be overheard if she pronounce the whole name. 'Oh, thanks; and the lady opposite in mourning is Mrs. E V A N S?' (spelling too). 'She is Mrs. Evans; but she is not in mourning; she is in her wedding-gown!' replies Peggy, breaking into a smile.