How interested they would have been if they could have overheard a conversation which was even then taking place across the road!
“Dear child!” cried a lady lying on a sofa at the far end of a beautifully-furnished drawing-room. “Dear child, what are you doing? For the last five minutes I have been watching you pretending to read with your eyes shut. It’s not a lesson book, and Miss Mason is not here, so what can you be thinking about, dear wee goose?”
The fair head turned round, and the book dropped to the floor.
“I’m thinking,” said a very sweet, sad little voice, “I’m thinking that I wish I were a large family, mother. I’m so tired of being only one!”
“Oh, Cynthia!” cried the lady—and there was a world of mother-yearning in her voice—“is it that old trouble again? Poor child, it is dull for you, but I do all I can for you, darling. I stayed at home especially to be near you, and I do my best to be a companion, and to sympathise in all your interests. Don’t tell me that I have failed altogether!”
Cynthia crossed the room, knelt down on the floor by her mother’s couch and laid both hands on her knee. The two faces that confronted each other were as much alike as was possible, given a difference in age of twenty-five years. Cynthia was a beautiful girl, and her mother was a beautiful woman, and the beauty lay as much in expression as in feature. Miles Trevor had been entirely mistaken when he compared the girl to a doll, for the direct glance of the eye, the sweet, firm lips and well-formed chin, belonged to no puppet, but showed unusual strength of character.
“You are a darling, and I adore you!” cried Cynthia fondly. “But you are old, you know, and I am so dreadfully young. There’s something all fizzling inside me for want of a vent. I’m just desperate sometimes to do something wild, and exciting, and hilarious; it doesn’t matter how silly it is; the sillier the better! I’m so dreadfully well-regulated, mother, considering I’m only sixteen. Lessons—‘studies,’ as Miss Mason calls them—musical exercises, constitutional, luncheon, more studies, dinner, polite conversation, performances upon the piano, that’s my daily round, and I get so tired! Don’t think I don’t appreciate you, mother. You know I do. We are the best friends in the world, but still—”
“I know,” said Mrs Alliot, and sighed once more. She stroked her daughter’s golden head in thoughtful silence, then asked curiously, “What made you feel your loneliness especially to-day, dear?”
A flicker of laughter passed over Cynthia’s pink-and-white face.
“The boy and girl in Number 1, the corner house, were playing tricks on me, trying to dazzle my eyes with something—a piece of old looking-glass, I suppose. I could not understand what caused the sudden glare until I caught a glimpse of their faces peering out from behind the curtains.”