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‟I DETEST prigs," said Mrs. Marjoy, as her hands flickered over the tea-tray in the drawing-room of The Hermitage. "And of that tribe commend me to young Strong as the prince of the sect."
Mrs. Marjoy was one of those irreproachably vulgar persons whose mission in life appears to be the distilling of spiritual nostrums for the consciences of their neighbors. She was a born critic, a mercurial being ingrained with prejudice and dowered with an inordinate self-esteem. She had run "to tongue" in a remarkable degree; moreover, she scanned the world through the prisms of a none too generous philosophy.