“Anyhow, dear, she is young, I must admit that, and she has very good taste, and perhaps she’ll help me to make some little extra finery for you. Now, dear child, get up and go on with that novel. I am so anxious to hear if Miss Melville really did accept Lord Dorchester or not.”
Mrs Aldworth’s taste in reading had degenerated very much since the days when she had won a first prize for literature at the second-rate school which had had the honour of educating her. She now preferred stories which appeared in penny papers to any others, and was deeply interested in the fate of Miss Melville at that moment.
Molly read badly, in a most slovenly style. Mrs Aldworth snapped her up every minute or two.
“Don’t drop your voice so, Molly; I didn’t hear what you said. Sit nearer, and don’t fidget. Oh, don’t you know how you torture my poor nerves?”
This sort of thing went on for a couple of hours. Molly grew sleepier and sleepier, and her face crosser and crosser. The room was no longer comfortable; the sun was pouring hotly in, the blinds were up, and neither Mrs Aldworth nor her daughter had the least idea how to mend matters.
But by-and-by—oh, welcome sound—there came a step in the corridor, and Marcia entered, bearing a beautifully arranged tea tray. She carried it herself, and there was a smile on her sweet face. She was all in white, and she looked most charming.
“I thought I’d give you both a surprise,” she said, “Shall I make tea for you this afternoon?”
Molly glanced at her mother. Was the culprit to be received with the coldness she deserved, or on the other hand, was this most welcome interruption to be hailed with delight. Molly flung down her paper and Mrs Aldworth roused herself.
“This room is too hot,” said Marcia. “Molly, allow me. Another day, dear, when you are taking charge of mother, draw this Venetian blind down at this hour, and move mother’s sofa a little into the shade. See how hot her cheeks are. Please run for a little warm water, Molly, I want to bathe your mother’s face and hands. You will feel so refreshed, dear, before you take your tea.” Molly skipped out of the room.
“Oh, if only I might run away and not go back,” she thought; but she did not dare.