"I must beg, Penelope, when you mention my late uncle, you will do so with respect," said Emma, with spirit.
Penelope looked surprised—and, for a moment, was silent; when next she spoke it was to question Emma minutely, as to the quality, price and texture of her dress, for the important day and night in prospect.
"I expect Margaret will be ready to expire with envy, when she sees the real Indian muslin that I mean to wear," pursued she, in a tone of great satisfaction; "I am not going to tell you how I came by it—for that's a great secret for some days to come. Is not Margaret horridly jealous?"
Emma looked shocked.
"Oh, I see!" laughed Penelope, "you are too good to abuse a sister—quite a Miss Charity or Miss Meek of a good little girl's prize book. But, if you like to sit like a goose weighing every word you are about to utter, I can tell you that does not suit me at all. I always say what comes into my head, without caring for anybody."
As Emma, however, did not follow the same method, she did not express how very unpleasant a course she considered it; and the sisters did not quarrel then.
"How has Margaret got on with Tom Musgrove?" continued Penelope, "by-the-bye, have you seen Tom Musgrove, yourself?"
"A little," said Emma.
"And how do you like him?—what do you think of him?—do you think he is in love with Margaret?" pursued Penelope.
"No," replied Emma, answering only to the last question.