“There!” said Isabel. “I do not care to be insulted any more.”
The two visitors swept out, and Laura was left alone. Whereupon she began to cry. “I do hate that sort of vulgarity,” said she, mopping her eyes. “I don’t believe he ever thought——”
Mrs. Pocklington entered in urbane majesty. “Well, is Isabel pleased with her little man?” she asked. “Why, child, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Laura.
“You’re crying.”
“No, I’m not. Those girls have been horrid.”
“What about?”
“Oh, the engagement, and——”
“And what?”
“And poor Mr. Neston—George Neston.”