“Quite confidential, you know,” said Mrs. Fleming, with her sweet smile. Molly felt as though she longed to rush to her and kiss her, but Jessie sat very cold and still. The colour had faded now from her cheeks; she was annoyed at her game being interrupted, and she showed it by her manner.
“I want to talk to you both about your cousin.”
“Our—I beg your pardon—our what?” said Jessie.
“Your cousin, Peggy Desmond.”
“She isn’t our cousin,” said Jessie.
“Oh, I didn’t know, I thought she was.”
“She isn’t our cousin really,” said Molly; “although, of course, I wish the dear little thing were; but she is no relation, although father says that we are to consider her our cousin. Father was simply devoted to her father; they were boys together at school at Rugby, and afterwards they were in the same college at Oxford, and all their lives they seem to have been together until, well, until the last few years. Father was just devoted to ‘Peter,’ as he called Peggy’s father; he used to tell us Irish story after Irish story about him, and when he died father was in a dreadful state. He went at once over to Ireland to fetch Peggy.”
“Yes,” said Jessie, “that’s the case. You see, she’s no relation; there is no particular reason why we should be fond of her, is there, Mrs. Fleming?”
“Every reason, I should have imagined, my dear.”
Jessie looked down, and pushed her little foot in and out. There was impatience in her attitude, impatience in her face, impatience in her manner. Molly looked at her sister and was silent.