"Poor little Thea," said Mona.
"And we're very poor," went on Dorothea with strange recklessness; "we ought to be rich, but we're not, and the house is full of children, and there's never any peace from morning till night."
Mona grew crimson. She wanted to say something very much, and she lacked the courage. Instead she asked how old were the children, as if she did not know!
"There's Betty," said Dot, "she's to come here when I leave, and she won't enjoy it a bit—she's such a romp—and there's Cyril, they're both about twelve. And there's Nancy, she's six, and the baby."
"I wish," said Mona, "I wish they belonged to me."
"How can I practise with them everywhere about. How can I read, how can I paint even, write my book, do anything, with them everywhere?" asked Dot dismally. "They just fill the house."
Again Mona stumbled to what she wanted to say, and stopped. Dot would say she was "lecturing." It would never do.
"You're rich," said pretty Dot pouting; "you can have everything you want, do anything, go anywhere."
A few puckers got into Mona's high forehead.
"Once," she said, "I had four sisters, all younger than myself, and they all died. I told you, didn't I?"