“I think,” she said, “that if you do not mind making the journey alone, Georgie, I should like to stay in Pen’yllan this winter.”
“In Pen’yllan?” cried Georgie. “All winter, Lisbeth?”
“At Pen’yllan? Here? With us?” cried Miss Millicent, and Miss Hetty, and Miss Clarissa, in chorus.
“Yes,” answered Lisbeth, in her most non-committal fashion. “At Pen’yllan, Aunt Hetty. Here, Aunt Millicent. With you, Aunt Clarissa.”
The Misses Tregarthyn became quite pale. They glanced at each other, and shook their heads, ominously. This portended something dreadful, indeed.
“My love,” faltered Miss Clarissa.
“What?” interposed Lisbeth. “Won’t you let me stay? Are you tired of me? I told you that you would be, you know, before I came.”
“Oh, my dear!” protested Miss Clarissa. “How can you? Tired of you? Sister Hetty, sister Millicent! Tired of her?”
“We only thought, my love, that it would be so dull to one used to—to the brilliant vortex of London society,” ended Miss Millicent, rather grandly.
“But if I think that it will not,” said Lisbeth. “I am tired of the ‘brilliant vortex of London society.’”