"If you mean that I consider myself complete mistress of the French language," says Molly, meekly, "I must say no."
"Ah! of course not. The remote country parts in which you live afford, I dare say, few opportunities of acquiring accomplishments."
"We have a National School," says Molly, with increasing mildness, and an impassive countenance.
"Ah!" says Marcia again. Her look—her tone—say volumes.
"You are very accomplished, I suppose," says Molly, presently, her voice full of resigned melancholy. "You can paint and draw?"
"Yes, a little."
"And play, and sing?"
"Well, yes," modestly; "I don't sing much, because my chest is delicate."
"Thin voice," thinks Molly to herself.
"How fortunate you are!" she says aloud. "How I envy you! Why, there is positively nothing you cannot do! Even that macrame, which seems to me more difficult than all the other things I have mentioned, you have entirely mastered. Now, I could not remember all those different knots to save my life. How clever you are! How attractive men must find you!" Molly sighs.