"Then the sign does not hold good."
"I don't know where I could have gotten all my temper from. Mamma was lovely, Phil says, and Aunt Wetherill gives her credit for all the virtues."
"I do not think it is real temper. It is love of tormenting—poor Phil."
"And, Polly, you always take his part."
"Yes." Polly's face turned scarlet to the very tips of her ears. Even her fingers showed pink against the white ruffle she was hemming.
"Oh, you don't mean—Polly, I never thought of that!" in great surprise.
"You may think of it now," in a soft, quivering tone. "Though it is almost—nothing."
Primrose threw herself down beside Polly and clasped her knees.
"And he never so much as suggested it to me. He might have——" in a plaintively aggrieved tone.
"Don't be angry. It was just a word, this morning. But I think we both knew. And I loved him long ago, when he was a King's man, and you flouted him so and delighted in being untender, when he loved you so."