at all; is she, now, Mrs. Pole?"--for
as the daughters had become fine women, so had the sons grown into
stalwart men. And then Mrs. Pole had answered: "Not a bit; is she,
now? Only think what Blanche was at her age. But she has fine eyes,
for all that; and they do say she is the cleverest of them all." And
that, too, is so true a description of her that I do not know that
I can add much to it. She was not like Blanche; for Blanche had
a bright complexion, and a fine neck, and a noble bust, _et vera
incessu patuit Dea_--a true goddess, that is, as far as the eye
went. She had a grand idea, moreover, of an apple-pie, and had not
reigned eighteen months at Creamclotted Hall before she knew all the
mysteries of pigs and milk, and most of those appertaining to cider
and green cheese.

Lucy had no neck at all worth speaking of,--no neck, I mean, that
ever produced eloquence; she was brown, too, and had addicted herself
in nowise, as she undoubtedly should have done, to larder utility. In
regard to the neck and colour, poor girl, she could not help herself;
but in that other respect she must be held as having wasted her
opportunities. But then what eyes she had! Mrs. Pole was right there.
They flashed upon you, not always softly; indeed not often softly
if you were a stranger to her; but whether softly or savagely, with
a brilliancy that dazzled you as you looked at them. And who shall
say of what colour they were? Green, probably, for most eyes are
green--green or grey, if green be thought uncomely for an eye-colour.
But it was not their colour, but their fire, which struck one with
such surprise.

Lucy Robarts was thoroughly a brunette. Sometimes the dark tint
of her cheek was exquisitely rich and lovely, and the fringes of
her eyes were long and soft, and her small teeth, which one so
seldom saw, were white as pearls, and her hair, though short, was
beautifully soft--by no means black, but yet of so dark a shade of
brown. Blanche, too, was noted for fine teeth. They were white and
regular and lofty as a new row of houses in a French city. But then
when she laughed she was all teeth; as she was all neck when she sat
at the piano. But Lucy's teeth!--it was only now and again, when in
some sudden burst of wonder she would sit for a moment with her lips
apart, that the fine finished lines and dainty pearl-white colour
of that perfect set of ivory could be seen. Mrs. Pole would have
said a word of her teeth also, but that t