“The fact is you’ve got into such a way of being sharp, and saying sharp things among your friends up in London, that you can hardly answer a person without it.” “Can’t I? Dear, dear, what a Mentor you are, Mary! No poor lad that ever ran up from Oxford for a spree in town got so lectured for his dissipation and iniquities as I do. Well, I beg Dr. Thorne’s pardon, and Lady Scatcherd’s, and I won’t be sharp any more; and I will—let me see, what was it I was to do? Marry him myself, I believe; was not that it?” “No; you’re not half good enough for him.” “I know that. I’m quite sure of that. Though I am so sharp, I’m very humble. You can’t accuse me of putting any very great value on myself.” “Perhaps not as much as you ought to do—on yourself.” “Now, what do you mean, Mary? I won’t be bullied and teased, and have innuendos thrown out at me, because you’ve got something on your mind, and don’t quite dare to speak it out. If you have got anything to say, say it.” But Mrs. Gresham did not choose to say it at that moment. She held her peace, and went on arranging her flowers—now with a more satisfied air, and without destruction to the geraniums. And when she had grouped her bunches properly she carried the jar from one part of the room to another, backwards and forwards, trying the effect of the colours, as though her mind was quite intent upon her flowers, and was for the moment wholly unoccupied with any other subject. But Miss Dunstable was not the woman to put up with this. She sat silent in her place, while her friend made one or two turns about the room; and then she got up from her seat also. “Mary,” she said, “give over about those wretched bits of green branches and leave the jars where they are. You’re trying to fidget me into a passion.” “Am I?” said Mrs. Gresham, standing opposite to a big bowl, and putting her head a little on one side, as though she could better look at her handiwork in that position. “You know you are; and it’s all because you lack courage to speak out. You didn’t begin at me in this way for nothing.” “I do lack courage. That’s just it,” said Mrs. Gresham, still giving a twist here and a set there to some of the small sprigs which constituted the background of her bouquet. “I do lack courage—to have ill motives imputed to me. I was thinking of saying something, and I am afraid, and therefore I will not say it. And now, if you like, I will be ready to take you out in ten minutes.”