"I believe he's hurt," Pauline declared.
"Hurt?" repeated her sisters.
"Yes, because you were both so frightfully critical of his room. Oh, I am glad that Mother and I aren't critical."
"Well, if he's hurt because I said he oughtn't to have an image of Our Lady on his mantelshelf," said Monica, "I really don't think we need bother any more about him. Was I to encourage him in such stupid little Gothic affectations?"
"Oh, oh," cried Pauline. "I think he's frightened of you, Monica dear, and of your long sentences, for I'm sure I am."
"He wasn't at all frightened of me," Monica asserted. "Didn't you hear him call me Monica?"
"And surely," Margaret put in, "you didn't really like those stupid mock mediaeval curtains. No design, just a lot of meaningless fleurs-de-lys looking like spots. It's because I think Guy has got a glimmering of taste that I gave him my honest opinion. Otherwise I shouldn't have bothered."
"No, I didn't like the curtains," Pauline admitted. "But I thought they were rather touching. And, oh, my dears, I can't tell you how touching I think the whole house is, with that poor woman squeezing her way about that enormous kitchen-furniture!"
Pauline looked out of the window as she spoke, and there at last was Guy standing on the lawn with her father, who was explaining something about a root which he held in his hand. On the two of them the rain poured steadily down. Pauline threw up the sash and called out that they were to come in at once.
"I am glad he's ... why what's the matter, Margaret?" she asked, as she saw her sister looking at her with an expression of rather emphatic surprize.