"Georgie!—Arthur is not an imbecile!"
"Of course I know he is an interesting one," said Georgina, curtly. "But all the same, from my point of view—However, I won't repeat the word, if it annoys you. But what I want to know is, when are we to have the house to ourselves again? Because, if this is to go on indefinitely, I depart!"
Cynthia came nearer to her sister. Her colour fluttered a little.
"Don't interfere just at present, Georgie," she said imploringly, in a low voice.
The two sisters looked at each other—Georgina covered with the dust and cobwebs of her own cottages, her battered hat a little on one side, and her coat and skirt betraying at every seam its venerable antiquity; and Cynthia, in pale grey, her rose-pink complexion answering to the gold of her hair, with every detail of her summer dress as fresh and dainty as the toil of her maid could make it.
"Well, I suppose—I understand," said Georgina, at last, in her gruffest voice. "All the same, I warn you, I can't stand it much longer. I shall be saying something rude to Buntingford."
"No, no—don't do that!"
"I haven't your motive—you see."
Cynthia coloured indignantly.
"If you think I'm only pretending to care for the child, Georgie, you're very much mistaken!"