She had laughed away all her secret resentment against Constance for having ignored her during the whole evening and for being on such intimate terms with their parents. And she was ready to be candidly jolly with Constance.
“Give it me,” said Constance, doggedly.
Sophia hid her hand under the clothes. “You can have his old stump, when it comes out, if you like. But not this. What a pity it’s the wrong one!”
“Sophia, I’m ashamed of you! Give it me.”
Then it was that Sophia first perceived Constance’s extreme seriousness. She was surprised and a little intimidated by it. For the expression of Constance’s face, usually so benign and calm, was harsh, almost fierce. However, Sophia had a great deal of what is called “spirit,” and not even ferocity on the face of mild Constance could intimidate her for more than a few seconds. Her gaiety expired and her teeth were hidden.
“I’ve said nothing to mother——” Constance proceeded.
“I should hope you haven’t,” Sophia put in tersely.
“But I certainly shall if you don’t throw that away,” Constance finished.
“You can say what you like,” Sophia retorted, adding contemptuously a term of opprobrium which has long since passed out of use: “Cant!”
“Will you give it me or won’t you?”