It seemed, indeed, opportune to remember at the moment that, while this
alleged Little Miss was the daughter of Miss Caroline, she was
likewise--and even more palpably, as I could note by fugitive swift
glimpses of her face--the daughter of a gentleman whose metal had been
often tried; one who had won his reputation as much by self-possession
under difficulties as by the militant spirit that incurred them.
"Kate has little of the Peavey in her,--she is every inch a Lansdale,"
Miss Caroline found occasion to say; while I, thus provided with an
excuse to look, remarked to myself that her inches, while not excessive,
were unusually meritorious.
"Worse than that--she's a Jere Lansdale," was my response, though I
tactfully left it unuttered for an "Indeed?" that seemed less emotional.
I could voice my deeper conviction not more explicitly than by saying
further to Miss Caroline, "Perhaps that explains why she has the effect
of making her mother seem positively immature."
"My mother _is_ positively immature," remarked the daughter, with the
air of telling something she had found out long since.
"Then perhaps the other is the false effect," I ventured. "It is your
mother's immaturity that makes you seem so--" I thought it kind to
hesitate for the word, but Miss Lansdale said, again confidently:--
"Oh, but I really _am_," and this with a finality that seemed to close
the incident.
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