"You are perfectly demented, Mittie. What makes you ask such ridiculous questions? Yes, I like you to be good, but I don't want you to be always chattering about it."
"My Marjory doesn't never chatter."
"There you go again! Always that perpetual 'my Marjory.' I hate to have a person's name drummed into my ears. If you want to make me detest her, you are setting to work in the right way. Miss Fitzalan is all very well, but one may have too much of a good thing."
Mittie stood near the table, her little arms folded, and her drooping face hidden by its cloud of fair hair. She made no answer. A touch of compunction came over Mrs. Trevor.
"Well, I dare say I can find you some red silk after all, if it's an affair of such immense importance. Not in my work-basket. Get me that little Indian box from the side-table."
The child obeyed silently, keeping her face turned away.
"Here, you can fish out something from this tangle. I dare say it is not more than two or three needles-full that you want, and Miss Fitzalan will not be critical about the colours matching. Mittie, you goose!" at the sound of a sob. "What on earth is the matter now?"
Mittie could not have explained. She did not herself know what made the tears come so fast. It was only a child's nameless pain at hearing hard words spoken against one whom she loved, but a child's pain may be very keen while it lasts. Mrs. Trevor mentally resolved to pass no strictures on Marjory Fitzalan in the future. She never could endure to see Mittie cry.
"Do stop, child, pray! You'll make such an object of yourself. You are quite welcome to think what you choose of Miss Fitzalan, if it makes you happy. I am sure I don't care. I wish Julia and Harvey would come home, for the afternoon is perfectly endless. It is a mercy we are going away soon. I really think I should end by a fit of melancholy madness if this sort of thing lasted much longer. Now, Mittie, I won't have another tear. Just think what fun you are going to have down on the shore at East Bourne, picking up shells and digging in the sand. Yes, of course, there is sand—and shingles and rocks too."
This proved comforting, and Mittie was wiled out of her grief. Another hour passed, and still the absentees appeared not. Mrs. Trevor grew vexed, counting herself ill-used. But yet another hour went by before Slade entered the drawing-room and stood within the door.