"Yes, it is a pity,—a dreadful pity," says Molly, mournfully. "I should like to be really well dressed. Marcia, I suppose, will be in satin, or something else equally desirable."
"No doubt she will deck herself out in Oriental splendor, if she discovers you can't," says Cecil, angrily.
There is a pause,—a decided one. Cecil sits frowning and staring at Molly, who has sunk into an attitude expressive of the deepest dejection. The little ormolu clock, regardless of emotion, ticks on undisturbed until three full minutes vanish into the past. Then Cecil, as though suddenly inspired, says, eagerly:
"Molly, why not ask your grandfather to give you a dress?"
"Not for all the world! Nothing would induce me. If I never was to see a ball I would not ask him for sixpence. How could you think it of me, Cecil?"
"Why didn't I think of it long ago, you mean? I only wish he was my grandfather, and I would never cease persecuting him, morning, noon, and night. What is the use of a grandfather if it isn't to tip one every now and then?"
"You forget the circumstances of my case."
"I do not indeed. Of course, beyond all doubt, he behaved badly; still——I really think," says Cecil, in a highly moralizing tone, "there is nothing on earth so mistaken as pride. I am free from it. I don't know the meaning of it, and I know I am all the happier in consequence."
"Perhaps I am more angry than proud."
"It is the same thing, and I wish you weren't. Oh, Molly! do ask him. What can it signify what he thinks?"