“But she is older—she is older than I am, and older than Molly. She is twenty.”
This was said with effect, and a long pause followed. “She will be twenty-one before long. You can’t call that young, can you?”
“Well, not as young as eighteen, of course.”
“But it isn’t young at all,” said Ethel, in a fretful tone. “Now I am only seventeen, and dear Molly is only eighteen; we are quite young.”
“And so are we, we are both eighteen, aren’t we, darling old Clay?” said Mabel, patting her sister on the face.
“Yes, but don’t call me Clay—it does sound so earthy,” said Clara. “But do go on, Ethel. Out with this trouble.”
“Well, it is this—father sent for Marcia.”
“What, from that delightful school where Mrs Silchester adores her so much?”
“Yes, why not? She is his child, and he sent for her, and she came, and Horace approved of the plan.”
“I am always so frightened of that Horace of yours,” said Mabel. “But do hurry up.”