“There’s an unpleasant draught over my feet,” said Mrs Aldworth. “Please, Molly, get me a light shawl to throw over them. No, not that one, the light one, the light one with the grey border. Just put it over my feet and tuck it in a little round the edge—not too much. You are not very skilful. Now, Marcia—”
“Oh, mother, you’ll have to do without much of your precious Marcia. It was an awful mistake to let her go to Frankfort; it has ruined her. She has come back most terribly conceited and most, most selfish.”
“I never did greatly admire her,” said Mrs Aldworth. “As a child she was exceedingly obstinate.”
“Like a mule, I’ve no doubt,” said Molly. “Oh, dear, dear! I know I’ve got a quick temper, but as to being mulish—I wouldn’t make others unhappy, and she has made three girls so wretched.”
“Well, out with it, Molly.”
Mrs Aldworth was so much interested and so much amazed, that now that her feet had just the right degree of heat provided for them by the shawl with the grey border, she was inclined to listen with curiosity.
“It was at breakfast, mother; we had planned our day, and then all of a sudden Marcia turned round and faced us. She said that she was going to look after you one day in the morning and the next day in the afternoon, and that we three girls were to look after you during the alternate times, and she said—”
“She surely didn’t say anything so monstrous and inhuman in the presence of your father?”
“That’s the worst of it, mother, you wouldn’t believe for a single moment that she could, but she did.”
“I don’t believe you, Molly.”