In twenty-five years Florrie would be the image of her mother--protuberant hips, pinched waist, mottled complexion, and hopelessly tarnished hair; yet, with this awful prospect before him, Algernon could appear not only tolerant, but positively adoring.

He had seen Bessie--he had known her for years--and he could marry her daughter! "I never saw her look handsomer," said Gabriella, "that white and silver gown is very becoming." "That's what I told her, but she wouldn't believe me.

She thought it was too plain for her style.

Your sister-in-law is something of Florrie's type, isn't she?
Not quite so striking a figure, perhaps, but the same sort of colouring." Was it possible that for the first time in his life the simple Algernon was speaking in irony?
Turning in her chair, she looked questioningly into his kind, grave face, so empty of humour, into his serious gray eyes, which followed each movement of his wife's with admiring attention.

No, he was not ironic; he was perfectly solemn.