Of the other ladies present, Miss Layard was arrayed in a hot-looking red garment, which she imagined would suit her dark eyes and complexion. Miss Rose, on the contrary, had come out in the virginal style of muslin and blue bows, whereof the effect, unhappily, was somewhat marred by a fiery complexion, acquired as the result of three days’ violent play at a tennis tournament. To this unfortunate circumstance Miss Layard, who had her own views of Miss Rose, was not slow in calling attention. “What has happened to poor Jane?” she said, addressing Mary. “She looks as though she had been red-ochred down to her shoulders.” “Who is poor Jane?” asked that young lady languidly. “Oh! you mean Miss Rose. I know, she has been playing in that tennis tournament at—what’s the name of the place? Dad would drive me there this afternoon, and it made me quite hot to look at her, jumping and running and hitting for hour after hour. But she’s awfully good at it; she won the prize. Don’t you envy anybody who can win a prize at a tennis tournament, Miss Layard?” “No,” she answered sharply, for Miss Layard did not shine at tennis. “I dislike women who go about what my brother calls ‘pot-hunting’ just as if they were professionals.” “Oh, do you? I admire them. It must be so nice to be able to do anything well, even if it’s only lawn tennis. It’s the poor failures like myself for whom I am so sorry.” “I don’t admire anybody who can come to out to a dinner party with a head and neck like that,” retorted Eliza. “Why not? You can’t burn, and that should make you more charitable. And I tie myself up in veils and umbrellas, which is absurd. Besides, what does it matter? You see, it is different with most of us; Miss Rose is so good-looking that she can afford herself these little luxuries.” “That is a matter of opinion,” replied Miss Layard. “Oh! I don’t think so; at least, the opinion is all one way. Don’t you think Miss Rose beautiful, Mr. Layard?” she said, turning to her companion. “Ripping,” said that gentleman, with emphasis. “But I wish she wouldn’t beat one at tennis; it is an insult to the stronger sex.” Mary looked at him reflectively. His sister looked at him also. “And I am sure that you think her beautiful, don’t you, Morris?” went on the imperturbable Mary. “Certainly, of course; lovely,” he replied, with a vacuous stare at the elderly wife of the baronet. “There, Miss Layard, now you collect the opinions of the gentlemen all along your side.” And Mary turned away, ostensibly to talk to her cavalier; but really to find out what could possibly interest Morris so deeply in the person or conversation of Lady Jones. Lady Jones was talking across the table to Mr. Tomley, the departing rector, a benevolent-looking person, with a broad forehead adorned like that of Father Time by a single lock of snowy hair.