Yet Monica, who might—an' she chose—have had two partners for every dance, is strangely silent and depressed. No word escapes her: she leans back with her pretty tired head pressed close against the cushions. Perchance little Kit notices all this; because when any one addresses Monica she makes answer for her in the most careless manner possible, and by her sharp wit turns the attention of all from the sister she adores; yet in her heart she is angry with Monica.
Once only during this homeward drive something occurs to disturb the serenity of the Misses Blake. Kit, in one of her merry sallies, has touched upon Miss Fitzgerald; whereupon Aunt Priscilla, mindful of that late and lingering adieu of Terence, says, suddenly,—
"And how do you like Miss Fitzgerald, Terence?"
"She's delightful, aunt!" says the stricken Terence, enthusiastically. "Perfectly enchanting! You never met so nice a girl!"
"Oh, yes! I think I have, Terence," says Miss Priscilla, freezingly. "I am, indeed, sure I have."
"There's something about her right down fetching," says Mr. Beresford, giving himself airs. "Something—er—there, but difficult to describe."
"A 'je ne sais quoi young man,'" quotes the younger Miss Beresford, with a sneer. "She's tall enough to be one, at any rate. She is a horrid girl I think."
"You're jealous," says Terence, contemptuously. "Because you know you will never be half as good to look at."
"If I thought that," says Kit, growing very red, "I'd commit suicide."
"Tut! You are too silly a child to be argued with," says Terence, in a tone that is not to be [borne].