"Harvey can't endure Brighton."
"My dear, a man will commonly like what he is told he likes. That is my experience. You leave it all to me, and I'll manage. We don't go to Scotland this autumn."
"But, Francesca, if Harvey and I wish to go—"
"You don't. Neither of you has any real wish that way. Imagine us three—you and Hermione and I—stranded in some dismal inn on a desolate moor, with nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to read, nothing to think about! We should quarrel all day for sheer lack of occupation. No, no—Brighton is the thing. Plenty going on there. We all are getting positively stupified with the lack of a little wholesome excitement. As for Hermione, nothing would do that girl more good than to be shaken out of her pet rut. She has nothing on earth to do now, except to pity herself; and to go gossiping round with the villagers. Mischief-making, in fact."
The door opened slightly and was shut again, nobody coming in.
"Francesca, do be careful. If that was Hermione, she must have heard."
"She will only have heard a home-truth for once. Do her no harm—that."
Francesca snapped her fingers lightly, with a little laugh not quite agreeable in sound.
Mrs. Trevor had a certain desire to "get hold of Hermione," as she tersely expressed it, to feel Hermione in her power, and she had not yet succeeded. Endeavour as she might, Hermione always slid gracefully away, and the effort failed.
"I don't want her to hear home-truths from us. Harvey would be vexed. He is always so anxious that we should make her happy."