Marjory did not understand, and as she did not know what to reply to this harangue, she said nothing. But silence did not suit Mrs. Hilary.
"You are very quiet for a girl of your age," she said. "Now my Maud has a continual flow of merry chatter, and I encourage the darling. I think it is so nice for a young girl to have plenty to say, and to have her own little opinions about things. For instance, Maudie chooses all her own hats and frocks, and decides what we shall do and where we shall go. It is perfectly delightful for me, and saves me so much thought and worry; I suffer so with my bad memory, you know. Come now, can't you chat to me? Any little village gossip or small happenings at home?" ("atome," as she pronounced it). "No? Well, dear me, what was it that darling Maud said about you? I know she said something, but my memory is such a trial. Oh yes, there was something about a dog; and you called Maud a savage, and she rather liked you for it. Dear child, she has such a sweet, forgiving nature."
"I never called her a savage," protested Marjory. "I—"
At that moment Blanche and Maud came bursting into the room.
"What's that about calling names?" cried Maud. "I called her a savage," nodding at Marjory, "but I didn't mean any harm, and you've got it all mixed up, you dear darling old muddle-head of a mother." And she rushed upon Mrs. Hilary and hugged her until the poor lady had no breath left with which to protest.
Marjory looked on in wonder. When Maud had done with her mother she turned to Marjory.
"Now, don't look at me like that," she said plaintively; "you're going to like me in the end; I'm going to make you. I know just exactly what you're thinking—that I'm a horrid, stuck-up, thoroughly spoilt and disagreeable girl. So I am; but I'm all right when you know me, though you've got to know me first, as the song says. True, I don't like dogs—nasty lumbering things that spoil one's best clothes; but that's not a crime—it's an opinion. I always have my own way, everybody gives in to me, and so long as I can 'boss the show,' as our American cousins say, I can be quite charming. Now you look as if you liked bossing shows yourself, Miss Marjory—people with long noses always do; so one of us will have to give in. I wonder which it will be. But I must have you like me; I am perfectly miserable if people aren't fond of me." And she looked at Marjory with a comic yet pathetic appeal in her eyes.
"Dear Maudie has such quaint little sayings," said her mother. "I don't know how she can remember them all."
"Well, which is it to be?" demanded Maud, dramatically striking an attitude. "Is it peace or war?"
"Oh, peace, I suppose," replied Marjory, laughing; and then as an afterthought—"for the present."