He had forgotten.
“That I’m not to go near Frances till to-night. She always treats me like a child.”
She looked very like one indeed, as she spoke, flushed and indignant.
“Perhaps Frances was going to sleep, and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
“As though I should disturb her! Why, I’ve looked after her ever since she was a little girl—until we came to live here. Now,” said Rosamund bitterly, “I’m told to mind my own business and let Frances mind hers.”
“Never mind,” consoled Morris. “Don’t let’s talk about it. I want to tell you something, Rosamund.”
Her angry face softened a little, but she seemed unable to dismiss the subject.
“Nobody has ever understood about Frances and me—ever. I feel more as though she were my child than my sister.”
Morris was becoming heartily tired of the discussion, and showed distinct traces of that fatigue in his tone, as he replied perfunctorily:
“Of course I understand—but, really, she’s only three years younger than you are, isn’t she?”