"I wouldn't bother myself to deny it. If anyone fancies curly hair and
big brown eyes and white cheeks and no chin to speak of and no feet fit
to walk with and no hands to work with, it isn't Martha Hatton and it
isn't Jane Harlow, I can take my affidavit on that," and the confident
smile which accompanied these words was better than any sworn oath to
John Hatton.

"You see, John," she continued, "I talked the man up and down with Jane,
from his number four gloves to his number four shoes, and I know what
she said--what she said in her own way, mind you. For Jane's way is to
pretend to like what she does not like, just to let people feel the road
to her real opinions."

"I do not quite understand you, mother."

"I don't know whether I quite understand myself, and it isn't my way to
explain my words--people usually know what I mean--but I will do it for
once, as John Hatton is wanting it. For instance, I was talking to Jane
about her lovers--I did not put you among them--and she said, 'Mrs.
Hatton, there are no lovers in these days. The men that are men are no
longer knights-errant. They don't fight in the tournament lists for
their lady-love, nor even sing serenades under her window in the
moonlight. We must look for them,' she said, 'in Manchester warehouses,
or Yorkshire spinning-mills. The knights-errant are all on the stock
exchange, and the poets write for _Punch_.' And I could not help
laughing, and she laughed too, and her laugh was so infectious I could
not get clear of it, and so poured my next cup of tea on the tea board."

"I wish I had been present."