“Prig is a word to apply to boys, Cousin Melville.”
“To girls, also, when they make nuisances of themselves.”
Paula bit her lip; but she conquered her temper by holding up to mental view the wonderful good she was determined to accomplish even by means of the falsehood she had acted. It would be so delightful, when she had converted Melville from the error of his ways by sheer force of her own perfection, to hear her friends say, “That is all dear Paula’s work. Melville was a thoroughly disagreeable boy when Paula took him in hand. We owe so much to Paula.” And almost hearing these laudatory phrases, so keenly did she imagine them, she turned again toward her victim with the question, “If you are tired of Dickens, what would you have me read?”
“Nothing. If you read as you talk, it would be unendurable to me. Why do you clip off the ends of your words in such a fashion? This isn’t a ‘woom,’ and that isn’t a ‘wockin’-chai-ah!’”
Now, if there was anything about herself of which Paula was more proud than another, it was her sweet and well-trained voice. Her modulation was exquisite, and it really pleased Melville; but because he saw that it was a weak point with his cousin he selected it as an object of ridicule.
Paula waited till she had counted ten twice over, before she ventured to speak. Then she ignored Melville’s attack and asked, “What would you like me to do, then, if you do not wish me to read?”
“Clear out.”
“Melville Capers, you are no gentleman!”
“You are no saint, so you needn’t pose for one!”
“I do not pose.”