"And pray who's called Goneril?"
Miss Prunty came forward; a short, thick-set woman of fifty, with fine
dark eyes, and, even in a Florentine summer, with something stiff and
masculine in the fashion of her dress.
"And have you brought your niece?" she said, turning to Miss Hamelyn.
"Yes, she is in the garden."
"Well; I hope she understands that she'll have to rough it here."
"Goneril is a very simple girl," said Miss Hamelyn.
"So it's she that's called Goneril?"
"Yes," said the aunt, making an effort. "Of course I am aware of the
strangeness of the name, but--but in fact my brother was devotedly
attached to his wife, who died at Goneril's birth."
"Whew!" whistled Miss Prunty. "The parson must have been a fool who
christened her!"
"He did, in fact, refuse; but my brother would have no baptism saving
with that name, which, unfortunately, it is impossible to shorten."
"I think it is a charming name!" said Madame Petrucci, coming to the
rescue. "Goneril: it dies on one's lips like music! And if you do not
like it, Brigida, what's in a name? as your charming Byron said."
"I hope we shall make her happy," said Miss Prunty.
"Of course we shall!" cried the elder lady.
"Goneril is easily made happy," asserted Miss Hamelyn.
"That's a good thing," snapped Miss Prunty; "for there's not much here
to make her so!"
"Oh, Brigida! I am sure there are many attractions.
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