“A pretty state of things,” began Nesta, pouting.
“Oh, don’t,” said Ethel.
“Don’t!” said Molly, who was nearer crying than either of them. “To think of Aunt Elizabeth—to have to go to her. Of course, it’s all Marcia.”
“Of course it’s all Marcia,” said a voice at the door, and the three girls had the grace to blush hotly as they turned and looked at their sister. She wore that immaculate white which was her invariable custom; her dark hair was becomingly arranged; her face was placid.
“My dear children, welcome home,” she said affectionately, “and try not to blame your poor old Marcia too much. It is nice to see you. I have tea ready for you in the little summer parlour. You must be thirsty after your long walk; I thought Jim Carter was going to bring you back in the dogcart.”
“He couldn’t,” began Nesta.
“He couldn’t,” interrupted Ethel; “he had to go to school for a special field day.”
“He would if he could,” burst in Molly.
“Well, anyhow, you are here, and I suppose the luggage is to follow.”
“Oh, yes; not that it matters,” said Molly.