“Yes,” said Stephanotie; “but don't they give you the quivers? Don't you feel as if you were rubbed the wrong way the moment you speak to them?”
“I don't take to them,” said Molly; “but I think they're pretty.”
“They're just like what O'Shanaghgan is now,” thought Nora, who did not speak. “They are all prim and proper; there's not a single wildness allowed to come out anywhere.”
“But they're for all the world like anybody else,” said Stephanotie. “Don't they love sweeties just! If you' had seen them—the greedy way they took the bon-bons out of the little boxes I gave them. Oh, they're just like anybody else, only they are playing parts; they are little actors; they're always acting. I'd like to catch them when they were not. I'd like to have them for one wild week, with you, Molly, and you, Nora. I tell you there would be a fine change in them both.”
“There's a telegraph-boy coming down the avenue,” cried Molly suddenly. “I'll run and see what is the matter?”
Nora did not know why her heart beat. Telegrams arrived every day at The Laurels. Nevertheless she felt sure that this was no ordinary message; she stood now and stared at that boy as though her eyes would start from their sockets.
“What is the matter?” said Stephanotie.
“Nothing—nothing.”
“You're vexed about something. Why should you be so distant with me?”
“I am not, Stephie. I am a little anxious; it is difficult always to be just the same,” said Nora.