“I say what?” asked Sophy, disregarding the other particulars.
“You say ‘coom’ and ‘boot,’ my darling, and it ought to be ‘kem’ and ‘bet’,” said Hatty, with such an affected pronunciation that Sophy and Fanny both burst out laughing.
“What do you mean?” said Sophy amid her laughter.
“Then—Fanny, my dear, you are not to escape! You are better bred than Sophy, because you take castor oil—”
“Hatty, what nonsense you are talking!” I cried, unable to endure any longer. But Hatty went on, taking no notice.
“But you drop your r’s, deah, and say deah Caroline,—(can’t manage it right, my dear!)—and you are slow and affected.”
“Hatty, you know I never said so!” I screamed.
“Then as to me,” pursued Hatty, casting her eyes up to the ceiling, “as to poor me, I am—well, not one of the angels, on any consideration. I tease my sweetest sister in the most cruel manner—”
“Well, that is true, Hatty, if nothing else is,” said Fanny.
“I have ‘horrid glazed red cheeks,’ and I eat like a plough-boy; and I don’t take castor oil. Castor oil is evidently one of the Christian graces.”