"Work! that alters the case. Let me see it." She took for granted it
was some useful work--something that could be worn when done. "What!
is this it--these dirty parchments? Oh! I see; it is for that selfish
old man; who but he would set a lady to parchments!"
"A bad guess," cried Lucy, joyously. "I found them myself, and set
myself to work on them."
"Don't tell me! He is at the bottom of it. If it was for yourself you
would give it up directly. How amusing for me to see you work at
that!" Lucy rose and brought her the new novel. Mrs. Bazalgette took
it and sat down to it, but she could not fix her attention long on it.
Ladies whose hearts are in dress have no taste for books, however
frivolous; can't sit them for above a second or two. Mrs. Bazalgette
fidgeted and fidgeted, and at last rose and left the room, book in
hand. "How unkind I am!" said Lucy to herself.
She was sitting sentinel till the carriage should arrive; then she
could run down and prepare her uncle for his innocent and accidental
visitor. It would not be prudent to let him receive the information
from a servant, or without the accompanying explanation. This it was
that made her so unnaturally firm when the little idle B pressed her
to waste in play the shining hours.
Mrs. Bazalgette went book in hand to her bedroom, and had not been
there long before she found employment. Many of Lucy's things were
still in the wardrobes. Mrs. B. rummaged them, inspected them at the
window, and ended by ringing for her maid and trying divers of her
niece's dresses on.
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