"Did grandfather inquire for me?" asked Doris.
"No, he never mentioned your name."
"Oh!" Doris looked decidedly piqued. "I daresay you didn't miss me?" she said half-questioningly.
"Not much," Molly responded frankly. "How foolish you are, Doris," she proceeded; "why need you be jealous of Felicia? She feels nothing but goodwill for you. As Uncle Guy says, it is very cruel to begrudge her a few pleasures after what her life must have been in the past—"
"You have been talking to Uncle Guy about me?" Doris broke in. "Oh, how—how mean of you!"
"I could not help it. He questioned me, and you know he is very sharp and puts two and two together. It's your fault for not going with me this afternoon. I expect you've had a dull time at home, haven't you?"
Doris was obliged to admit that she had, for, except for the servants, she had had the house to herself, and time had hung heavily on her hands. She had grown rather ashamed of her jealous temper during the hours she had spent in solitude; and now acknowledged to herself that she had shown herself very small-minded. She determined she would be nicer and less reserved to Felicia for the future, or perhaps Uncle Guy would take her to task upon the point, and she certainly did not desire that.
"I wonder why he likes her so much," she mused; "I know he does like her by the sound of his voice when he speaks of 'our little ditch flower,' as he always calls her. I don't suppose he ever shows his temper to her."
There Doris was wrong, for Felicia had witnessed several exhibitions of poor Uncle Guy's temper since the evening Lion had upset the table and broken the Venetian vase; but she was learning to have patience with him, and was, all unknowingly, gaining a greater influence over him on that account.