“Cousin Bertie is always harping on that, and telling Frances not to be domineered over!”
“Rosamund!” cried Morris, “you really talk as though Mrs. Tregaskis was always being unkind to you. I can’t understand you. Why, she simply adores you both—just as though she were your mother.”
He was totally unable to understand why Rosamund, at this, turned the fury of her eyes full upon him.
“You don’t understand, any more than anyone else.”
“Don’t understand what?” almost shouted Morris. “I don’t understand you, when you talk like that.”
Nor did he. She seemed to him altogether unbalanced, and as different as possible from the stately, wonderful Rosamund whom he had met in the orchard at Porthlew.
“Why do you speak as though Mrs. Tregaskis was unkind, or unsympathetic?” he asked more gently. “She is devoted to you. You can’t think how proud she is of you, Rosamund.”
“I’m not her daughter.”
“She feels as though you were. She told me so herself.”
“I wish you hadn’t let her talk to you about me at all,” said Rosamund unhappily.