“Blooming is not the word I would apply to Diana, Mr. Snodgrass; but she is very well.”

“Ah, you were always rather a purist about language. Well, then, you must allow that your niece is blooming. I never saw Miss Sophy look so well.”

“My niece has been very much appreciated here,” 토토검증사이트 said Mrs. Norton. “She has found herself among people who understand her, and that is always an addition to one’s happiness.”

“Surely,” said the rector, to whom the idea of Sophy as a person not understood by her surroundings was novel. He objected to Sophy and her aunt as “parasites,” just as Sophy and her aunt objected to himself and his dear “Bill” as annoyances to Diana. “It is too bad,” Mrs. Norton cried, hurrying across to Mrs. Hunstanton after this little encounter. “Diana hates these men—and she cannot get rid of them wherever she goes.{96}”

“Diana is a great deal too kind to everybody,” said Mrs. Hunstanton. “She has a way of concealing when she is bored which I call downright hypocrisy—but I don’t see why she should hate them in particular, poor men!”

“Look at that!” said Mrs. Norton, with a certain vehemence. It was the curate whom she pointed out, and Pandolfini, who was by, profited also by the indication. He was standing straight up in a corner, poor curate, shy and frightened of the voluble groups about, among whom there were several Italians and a good deal of polyglot conversation. Mr. William Snodgrass knew no language but his own, and was not very fluent even in that. He stood up very straight, as if he had been driven into the corner or was undergoing punishment there, and gazed over everybody’s head, being very tall, at Diana. The very dulness of the gaze had something pathetic in it, like the adoration of a faithful dog. Neither for the strange people nor the new place had the poor curate any eyes. Mrs. Hunstanton looked at him with familiar scorn, as a person well aware of his delusion, and treating it with the contempt it deserved—but Pandolfini gazed with very different feelings at his fellow-worshipper. Even while he smiled at the frightened look upon the poor fello{97}w’s countenance, and his evident dismayed avoidance of the strangers about, his dumb devotion touched the Italian’s heart.

“It is Miss Trelawny upon whom his eyes fix themselves.”