"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?"
Mr. Gibson had had to go out to his evening round; and the young men were all too glad to come up into the pretty drawing-room; the bright little wood-fire; the comfortable easy-chairs which, with so small a party, might be drawn round the hearth; the good-natured hostess; the pretty, agreeable girls. Roger sauntered up to the corner where Cynthia was standing, playing with a hand-screen.
"There is a charity ball in Hollingford soon, isn't there?" asked he.
"Yes; on Easter Tuesday," she replied.
"Are you going? I suppose you are?"