Celia, flushing at the intolerable offensiveness to her of this, replied in a low soft voice that she was at present not going out at all, and with a bow of the most finished perfection passed forth. It had been so well done that Judith, who felt snubbed at the moment, rejected, upon consideration, the idea of a repulse, and the year after, when Miss Compton was out of mourning, sent her an invitation. Celia declined it in a note which contained not one discoverable prickle, but yet had about it an atmosphere that seemed to numb Judith's hand which held it. To the most critical examination, however, it showed nothing that was not completely civil, and the unwary Judith permitted herself to act upon the verdict of her brain, and again, and at intervals again, made overtures to Celia, of whom she had from the first glance fallen into the most extravagant admiration. It was her native conceit which prevented her for such a long time from reaching the certainty that a closer acquaintance with her was not desired. For what reason?... How could such a thing be?... She was in her proper esteem so beyond question as desirable an acquaintance as any person could have. And she was attracted by Celia as she had never been by woman or man before. Though she was far from being so humble as to wish herself in any wise altered to resemble her, it was the difference between them, no doubt, which gave such fascination for her to Celia's every way of being, her coolness, restraint, that personal pride so quiet it had the face almost of modesty, and her manner! her air!... Covering the house with white paint was, however, the only tribute of imitation Judith ever paid her, and it was not conscious: she had merely looked at the white house so much that she judged the paint on her own house to have become, with wear, more glaring.