"And will there be nobody, then?" asked Miss Cunningham, with a sudden pang, as she thought of the green poplin, and the white silk, and the pink crape, wasting their splendour upon Mr and Mrs Harrington.
"Just a few people," was the reply; "the young Dornfords, and their papa, and one or two others."
"What, boys! school-boys!" exclaimed Miss Cunningham, in horror; and before Dora could answer, Margaret came into the room in particularly good spirits, and with a manner which formed a singular contrast to her sister's. The embraces were so fervent, the expressions of affection so warm, that a common observer might have supposed, with reason, that this was the first meeting after an absence of several years, between very dear friends, while Dora looked on with a curling lip, and a contracted brow, and a secret rejoicing that she was not in Margaret's place.
"When you have done kissing, Margaret," she said, at length, "perhaps you will just listen to me. Amy wishes to dine to-day at half-past one; and mamma has no objection, and so it is to be."
"Really, Dora," replied Margaret, "it is very rude to attend to Amy's wishes instead of Lucy's. I always thought relations were to be thought of last."
"Amy wishes to dine at half-past one; and mamma has no objection, and so it is to be," repeated Dora, with a manner which she intended to be dignified, though it was only very cross.
"Don't mind her," half whispered Margaret to Miss Cunningham; "it is only her foolish way; we need not dine earlier than we choose for Amy. It really is too absurd to think of giving up to her, and I shall speak to mamma about it."
Dora pretended not to hear this speech, and left the room satisfied with having exhibited her authority and carelessness of Miss Cunningham's feelings, and dissatisfied, in her secret heart, by the consciousness of having been extremely unamiable. She met Amy on the stairs; and the sight of her gay, innocent face, which seemed quite a reproach, had seldom been so unwelcome; but it was impossible to vent any anger upon her, and hastily passing, Dora shut herself up in her own room; while Amy, who had lately been quite unused to such a manner from her cousin, could only wonder in silence what had happened to discompose her.
Miss Cunningham, in the meantime, relieved from Dora's presence, felt no scruple in giving way to her expressions of dislike to Amy; and, with great earnestness, endeavoured to inspire Margaret with similar feelings. It was so strange, so unusual—such a very great liberty, for a cousin to think of choosing what time every one else should dine; really, she could not have imagined that Mrs Harrington would allow it; but she had always observed that Amy Herbert was very much at her ease; in a little time she would have everything her own way. "Of course, I don't mean to speak against her," she continued; "only I know a family just like yours, Margaret, where there was a cousin brought up, and at last her uncle and aunt really became fonder of her than they were of their own children."
"There is no fear of that with mamma," replied Margaret; "I am sure she does not care a straw for Amy. Papa is different. I do think, sometimes, he takes a good deal of notice of her; but then, you know, she is not brought up with us; she is only here on a visit."