“You will never regret having a fondness for reading,” she said seriously. “There is nothing better for a young girl than a good book.”
“Oh, I’ve always loved to read,” replied Nancy, flushing under the compliment, “but I’m afraid I like it too much. There are so many other things to do, you know.”
“Of course, there are other things to do,” admitted Margot, sort of leading Nancy into her room while she talked, “but I do believe in lots of reading. I can’t get Rosalind to read anything but the most absurd stuff,” her voice was full of regret at this point. “Can you imagine her reading boys’ books? And detective stories?”
“Oh, yes,” defended Nancy, “I know lots of girls who do that. And boys’ books are good reading, sometimes.” She feared each new sentence from Margot would be a question about the intruder, and hardly knew what she herself was saying.
“But you see, my dear, it’s this way with Rosa. Let’s sit down. I’ve been wanting a few minutes’ talk with you.”
Nancy pulled out a comfortable chair into which the portly Margot deposited herself. A low boudoir chair, the sort with the lovely square boxy arms, suited Nancy best and she placed herself into that.
“Rosalind is still a darling baby,” went on Margot. “Because her own dear mother had to leave her when Rosalind was so young, I suppose I am a little too easy with the child, but you couldn’t understand how very hard it is for me to be severe when I remember that poor dear mother.”
Margot was surely genuine in her sympathy, and as she talked Nancy felt that she could understand. So that must be why Rosa had always, or almost always, conquered Margot, in spite of her usual talk to the contrary.
“She’s not half as rebellious as she pretends to be,” Margot continued, “but I have some worries.” She stopped and looked so keenly at Nancy that the girl felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Then she suddenly asked:
“Has she told you anything of this girl, Orilla?”