“I don’t care whether I can or not, I’m going to do it. This Lawrence J. Bond, or whoever he is, discovered her without our consent; now he can attend to the rest; I shall simply get her a ticket back to his address in London and pack her off.”
“Of course that is the only thing to do—we can’t have her here. And yet—Priscilla—she is Lavinia’s daughter.”
“What of it? Lavinia didn’t consider our feelings when she deserted and disgraced us, so why should we concern ourselves about her child?”
“True enough; and yet I shall be glad to see the little girl. How old is she, Priscilla?”
“I suppose she must be about fourteen. Yes; it was fourteen years ago that Jack Lovell wrote, saying his wife had died, leaving a tiny baby. He said the little one had blue eyes and golden curls, so I daresay she has grown up to look like her mother. Lavinia was pretty.”
“Oh, she was. And how sweet she used to look dancing round the house in her bright, pretty frocks.”
“Well, what if she did? Lavinia’s daughter is not Lavinia, and I wash my hands of the little nuisance. If you choose to—”
“Oh, no, no! I wouldn’t do anything that you would disapprove of. But I only thought—perhaps—if she is a sweet, docile child she might be a comfort to us.”
“Are you losing your mind, Dorinda? What comfort could come of a responsibility like that? Think of the worrying over her clothes and education and accomplishments. And then, after a while, probably she would treat us as her mother did, and run away with a good-for-nothing scamp.”
“Yes, yes, sister, you are quite right. What is the child’s name, do you know?”