“Only that if he’s a dunce his opinion of me is worth nothing. So, any way, it doesn’t signify.”
“You really bewilder me with your nonsense, child. Molly is worth twenty of you.”
“I quite agree with you, mamma,” said Cynthia, turning round to take Molly’s hand.
“Yes; but she ought not to be,” said Mrs. Gibson, still irritated. “Think of the advantages you’ve had.”
“I’m afraid I had rather be a dunce than a blue-stocking,” said Molly; for the term had a little annoyed her, and the annoyance was rankling still.
“Hush; here they are coming: I hear the dining-room door! I never meant you were a blue-stocking, dear, so don’t look vexed—Cynthia, my love, where did you get those lovely flowers—anemones, are they? They suit your complexion so exactly.”
“Come, Molly, don’t look so grave and thoughtful,” exclaimed Cynthia. “Don’t you perceive mamma wants us to be smiling and amiable?”
A Visit to an Old Bachelor
From Cranford, 1853