“I wish Trixie had come with us,” she said to Oliver.
Oliver stared.
“Do you, really?” he said. “Well, no, I can’t agree with you. I’d rather have Florence—no, she’s talking, she can’t hear, and no matter if she does—ten times over. If Trixie’s in a good-humour she’s sure to be up to mischief, and when she’s sulky she’s worse.”
“I think you’re all very hard on her,” said Imogen, rather sharply.
Oliver looked still further taken aback. His admiration for his new friend slightly diminished. Could she have a bad temper? Oliver had no liking for bad-tempered girls.
“Well,” he said, “to tell you the truth, I think it’s rather the other way. Every one’s been so uncommonly easy with her, that she’s got to think she can do as she pleases.”
“That’s very unfair,” said Imogen, still sharply. “People spoil their children, and then when they find the poor things are spoilt, they turn round upon them and abuse them.”
“There’s something in that, perhaps,” said Oliver, good-naturedly. His good-nature disarmed Miss Wentworth a little.
“I shouldn’t have spoken that way,” she said, after a pause. “It wasn’t my place to say it.”
“It’s all right,” Oliver replied. “You needn’t mind what you say to me.”