“Flora, I wish you would not talk about such things!”
“Do you really and truly, Ethel?”
“Certainly not, at such a time as this,” said Ethel.
Flora was checked a little, and sat down to write to Marjorie Ogilvie. “Shall I say you like the brooch, Ethel?” she asked presently.
“Say what is proper,” said Ethel impatiently. “You know what I mean, in the fullest sense of the word.”
“Do I?” said Flora.
“I mean,” said Ethel, “that you may say, simply and rationally, that I like the thing, but I won’t have it said as a message, or that I take it as his present.”
“Very well,” said Flora, “the whole affair is simple enough, if you would not be so conscious, my dear.”
“Flora, I can’t stand your calling me my dear!”
“I am very much obliged to you,” said Flora, laughing, more than she would have liked to be seen, but recalled by her sister’s look. Ethel was sorry at once.