"Oh no, mamma, only because he is Bob."
"Well, my dear, you will not find any Middlemarch young man who has not
something against him."
"But"--here Rosamond's face broke into a smile which suddenly revealed
two dimples. She herself thought unfavorably of these dimples and
smiled little in general society. "But I shall not marry any
Middlemarch young man."
"So it seems, my love, for you have as good as refused the pick of
them; and if there's better to be had, I'm sure there's no girl better
deserves it."
"Excuse me, mamma--I wish you would not say, 'the pick of them.'"
"Why, what else are they?"
"I mean, mamma, it is rather a vulgar expression."
"Very likely, my dear; I never was a good speaker. What should I say?"
"The best of them."
"Why, that seems just as plain and common. If I had had time to think,
I should have said, 'the most superior young men.' But with your
education you must know."
"What must Rosy know, mother?" said Mr. Fred, who had slid in
unobserved through the half-open door while the ladies were bending
over their work, and now going up to the fire stood with his back
towards it, warming the soles of his slippers.
"Whether it's right to say 'superior young men,'" said Mrs. Vincy,
ringing the bell.
"Oh, there are so many superior teas and sugars now. Superior is
getting to be shopkeepers' slang."
"Are you beginning to dislike slang, then?" said Rosamond, with mild
gravity.
"Only the wrong sort. All choice of words is slang. It marks a class."
"There is correct English: that is not slang."
"I beg your pardon: correct English is the slang of prigs who write
history and essays. And the strongest slang of all is the slang of
poets."
"You will say anything, Fred, to gain your point."
"Well, tell me whether it is slang or poetry to call an ox a
leg-plaiter."
"Of course you can call it poetry if you like."
"Aha, Miss Rosy, you don't know Homer from slang. I shall invent a new
game; I shall write bits of slang and poetry on slips, and give them to
you to separate."
"Dear me, how amusing it is to hear young people talk!" said Mrs.
Vincy, with cheerful admiration.
"Have you got nothing else for my breakfast, Pritchard?" said Fred, to
the servant who brought in coffee and buttered toast; while he walked
round the table surveying the ham, potted beef, and other cold
remnants, with an air of silent rejection, and polite forbearance from
signs of disgust.
"Should you like eggs, sir?"