But over and above my natural instinct against the unloving fondling
of drawing-room visitors, I had a special and peculiar antipathy to
Miss Eliza Burton.
At first, I think I rather admired her. Her rolling eyes, the black
hair plastered low upon her forehead,--the colour high, but never
changeable or delicate--the amplitude and rustle of her skirts, the
impressiveness of her manner, her very positive matureness, were just
what the crude taste of childhood is apt to be fascinated by. She was
the sister of my father's man of business; and she and her brother
were visiting at my home. She really looked well in the morning,
"toned down" by a fresh, summer muslin, and all womanly anxiety to
relieve my father of the trouble of making the tea for breakfast.
"Dear Mr. Dacre, _do_ let me relieve you of that task," she cried, her
ribbons fluttering over the sugar-basin. "I never like to see a
gentleman sacrificing himself for his guests at breakfast. You have
enough to do at dinner, carving large joints, and jointing those
terrible birds. At breakfast a gentleman should have no trouble but
the cracking of his own egg and the reading of his own newspaper. Now
do let me!"
Miss Burton's long fingers were almost on the tea-caddy; but at that
moment my father quietly opened it, and began to measure out the tea.
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