Now, nobody, big or little, on this earth likes to be what Fritz called “musted.” Even Content felt a disinclination to leave her post at the cripple’s side, since they had found that in their mutual love of Dickens and his magic they could meet on happy ground. The girl’s musical voice was just picturing, with a pathos her sympathy made real, the death-scene of little Paul Dombey, and both reader and listener were steeped in sorrow for the loss of one who was a real personage to them, when the door opened and Paula, crisp and rattling in her freshly starched skirts, entered.
To sensitive Melville, the effect was as if she had struck him; while Content felt as deep if a quieter disappointment.
“I’ve come to sit with you, Melville; and Content, you are to go right out and have a game of tennis. Aunt Ruth says this moping indoors isn’t good for you.”
“Tennis! Alone? And I’m not moping at all. We were having a real good time; weren’t we, Melville?”
“We were; but it’s over!”
“Oh, no, indeed; it isn’t over. If Aunt Ruth wished me to go out of doors, I am sure it was because she thought I must be tired. But I’m not tired; I’d rather read Dickens than play tennis.”
“Why, Content Kinsolving! Here you have been held up to us as a shining example, and you are, after all, what even little Fritz would disdain to be,—disobedient!”
“Paula! Did Aunt Ruth really say I was to go out?” asked Content, with her color rising.
Now, Ruth had said nothing of the kind. What she had remarked was that she wished Content cared more for such healthful games as this—to her—new one of lawn tennis, which had been introduced at The Snuggery along with the pony-cart, the archery outfit, the photographic camera, and the various other amusements which that most indulgent man, “Fritzy Nunky,” provided for his charges.
However, Paula felt herself warranted in interpreting the spirit of her aunt’s words in a fashion to suit herself. She was bent on missionizing; and she silenced any misgivings of her own conscience by the conclusion that the end justified the means. Though her face flushed with guilty shame at the lie she was acting, she did not distinctly answer; but the air of injured innocence with which she took her place by the foot of Melville’s lounge said more than speech;—she, Paula, was not accustomed to have her word doubted; if Content was suspicious enough to mistrust her, why she was above resentment; as for her, she always did her duty, whether other people did or not. All this was conveyed to quick-witted Content by the simple manner in which Paula spread out her dress, tossed her fair head, and quietly took her seat.