“Softly, Sara,” said Mr. Brownlow, with that indulgent look which Sara alone called into his eyes.
“Oh yes, papa, as softly as you please; but I shall never be like her if I were to live a hundred years. I’d like to cut all my hair off, and wear it like that; but what’s the use, with this odious light hair?”
“I thought it was golden and Titianesque, and all sorts of fine things,” said Jack, “besides being fashionable. I’ve heard Keppel say--”
“Don’t, please; Mr. Keppel is so stupid,” and she took in her hand a certain curl she had, which was her favorite curl in a general way, and looked at it with something like disgust.
“It isn’t even the right color for the fashion,” she said, contemptuously. This was at breakfast, before the gentlemen went to business, which was a favorite hour with all of them, when their minds were free, and the day had not as yet produced its vexations. Mr. Brownlow, for his part, had quite got over any symptoms of discomposure that his children might have perceived on his face. Every thing was going on well again. Young Powys was safely settled in the office, and his employer already had got used to him, and nothing seemed to be coming of it: and every day was helping on the year, the one remaining year of uncertainty. He was very anxious, but still he was not such a novice in life but that he could keep his anxiety to himself.
“Don’t forget to make every thing comfortable for your visitors,” was what he said, as he drove away; and the fact was, that even Mr. Brownlow cast a glance over at Mrs. Swayne’s windows; and that Jack brought the mare almost on her haunches, by way of showing his skill, as she dashed out at the gates. And poor little Pamela had limped to the window, for she had not much to amuse her, and the passing of Mr. Brownlow’s dog-cart was an event. “Is that the girl?” said Mr. Brownlow; “why she is like your sister, Jack.”
“Like Sara!” Jack gasped in dismay. He was so amazed that he could say nothing more for a full minute. “I suppose you think every thing that’s pretty is like Sara,” he said, when he had recovered his breath.
“Well, perhaps,” said the father; “but there’s something more there--and yet she’s not like Sara either for the matter of that.”