The waltzing, too, how glad she was that grandmamma had forbidden it, and here Henrietta chimed in. She had never seen waltzing before; had only heard of it as people in their quiet homes hear and think of the doings of the fashionable world, and in her simplicity was perfectly shocked and amazed at Jessie, a sort of relation, practising it and pleading for it. “My dear!” said Beatrice, laughing, “I do not know what you would do if you were me, when there is Matilda St. Leger polka-ing away half the days of her life.” “Yes, but Lady Matilda is a regular fashionable young lady.” “Ay, and so is Jessie at heart. It is the elegance, and the air, and the society that are wanting, not the will. It is the circumstances that make the difference, not the temper.” “Quite true, Busy Bee,” said her aunt, “temper may be the same in very different circumstances.” “But it is very curious, mamma,” said Henrietta, “how people can be particular in one point, and not in another. Now, Bee, I beg your pardon, only I know you don’t mind it, Jessie did not approve of your skating.” “Yes,” said Beatrice, “every one has scruples of his own, and laughs at those of other people.” “Which I think ought to teach Busy Bees to be rather less stinging,” said Aunt Mary. “But then, mamma,” said Henrietta, “we must hold to the right scruples, and what are they? I do not suppose that in reality Jessie is less--less desirous of avoiding all that verges towards a want of propriety then we are, yet she waltzes. Now we were brought up to dislike such things.” “O, it is just according to what you are brought up to,” said Beatrice. “A Turkish lady despises us for showing our faces: it is just as you think it.” “No, that will not do,” said Henrietta. “Something must be actually wrong. Mamma, do say what you think.” “I think, my dear, that woman has been mercifully endowed with an instinct which discerns unconsciously what is becoming or not, and whatever at the first moment jars on that sense is unbecoming in her own individual case. The fineness of the perception may be destroyed by education, or wilful dulling, and often on one point it may be silent, though alive and active on others.” “Yes,” said Henrietta, as if satisfied. “And above all,” said her mother, “it, like other gifts, grows dangerous, it may become affectation.” “Pruding,” said Beatrice, “showing openly that you like it to be observed how prudent and proper you are.” “Whereas true delicacy would shrink from showing that it is conscious of anything wrong,” said Henrietta. “Wrong I do not exactly mean, but something on the borders of it.” “Yes,” said Aunt Mary, “and above all, do not let this delicacy show itself in the carping at other people, which only exalts our own opinion of ourselves, and very soon turns into ‘judging our neighbour.’” “But there is false delicacy, aunt.” “Yes, but it would be false kindness to enter on a fresh discussion tonight, when you ought to be fast asleep.” CHAPTER XI.