“It did not come well from you, Ethel,” said the doctor, looking vexed.
“No, I know it did not,” said Ethel meekly; “but oh! to have these janglings once a week, and to see no end to them!”
“Once a week?”
“It is really as often, or more often,” said Ethel. “If any of us criticise anything the girls have done, if there is a change in any arrangement, if she thinks herself neglected—I can’t tell you what little matters suffice; she will catch me, and argue with me, till—oh, till we are both half dead, and yet cannot stop ourselves.”
“Why do you argue?”
“If I could only help it!”
“Bad management,” said the doctor, in a low, musing tone. “You want a head!” and he sighed.
“Oh, papa, I did not mean to distress you. I would not have told you if I had remembered—but I am worried to-day, and off my guard—”
“Ethel, I thought you were the one on whom I could depend for bearing everything.”
“These were such nonsense!”