"Joyce, lay the cloth," said she. "We'll have tea at once." I left the room with sister.
"Never mind," whispered I, outside, as we fetched the pretty white egg-shell cups that always came out when we had any company; "mother doesn't mean to be queer. She is just a little cold now, because she wants Captain Forrester to understand it wasn't with her leave we let him drive us home. But she isn't really cross."
"Cross! Oh, Margaret, no—of course not," echoed Joyce. She was taking down a plate from under a pile of cups, and said no more at the moment. I was ashamed and half vexed. That was the worst of Joyce. Sometimes she would reprove one when one was actually fighting her battles.
"Of course we ought not to have done it," continued she, setting the cups in order on the tray. "I felt it at the time."
"Then, why in the world didn't you say so?" cried I.
"I didn't know how to say so; you scarcely gave me a chance," answered she. "Of course, I know you did it because I was so stupidly frightened, but it makes me rather uncomfortable now."
"Oh, I thought you seemed to get on very well with Captain Forrester, just now," said I, huffily, kneeling down to reach the cake on the bottom shelf. "You seemed quite civil to him, and you didn't look uncomfortable."
"Didn't I? I'm glad," answered Joyce, simply. "Of course one wants to be civil to the squire's friends in father's house. And I do think he is a very polite gentleman."
She took up the tray and moved on into the parlor, and I went across into the kitchen to fetch the urn. I had never been envious of Joyce's beauty up to the present time. Nothing had happened to make me so, and I was fully occupied in being proud of it. But if her beauty was of such little account to her that she had not even been pleased by this handsome man's admiration of it—well, I thought I could have made better use of it.