"A stewardess! My daughter a stewardess! I believe we could put you in an asylum—you're not decent!"
Mrs. Dickett's cheeks were greyish and mottled.
"Come, come, mother! Come, come!" said Mr. Dickett. "There's some mistake, I'm sure. If you'd only come and live with us, Molly—we're all alone, now, you know, and Lord knows there's plenty for all. It doesn't seem quite the thing, I must say, though. It—it hurts your mother's pride, you see."
"I'm sorry," said Molly, sadly. It is incredible, but she had never anticipated it! She was really very simple and direct, and life seemed so clear and good to her, now.
"To compare yourself with that Englishman is ridiculous, and you know it," sobbed Eleanor. "What if he was a cow-boy? He didn't wear a cap and apron—and it was for his health—and George is too angry to come over, even!"
"It's for my health, too," Molly urged, trying to keep her temper. "I never was the same after I went on that vacation to Maine—I told you before. Life isn't worth living, unless you're well."
"But you could have the south chamber for your own sitting-room, as George suggested, and do your writing at your own time," Mr. Dickett began.
"I've told you I'm not a writer," she interrupted shortly.
"George would rather have paid out of his own pocket——"
"We'll leave George out of this, I think," said Molly, her foot tapping dangerously.