“Oh, poor George Neston. What did they say?”
“Isabel pretended he had been in love with her, and—and was in love with her, and that she had refused him.”
“Oh, and that made you cry?”
“No—not that——”
“What, then?”
“Oh, please, mamma!”
Mrs. Pocklington smiled. “Stop crying, my dear. It used to suit me, but it doesn’t suit you. Stop, dear.”
“Very well, mamma,” said poor Laura, thinking it a little hard that she might not even cry.
“Did you cry before the girls?”