“It’s nothing to make such a fuss about,” she said. “It’s only Florrie’s way.”
“It’s not the family way, it must be allowed,” remarked Oliver, complacently.
Major Winchester glanced at him quickly, not to say sharply.
“No,” he said drily, “it is not.—Well, Alicia?”
“It’s only that some stupid people are coming to stay here next week—a mother and daughter, and we have too many women already, for one thing. And the girl is almost a child, only just out, and the mother’s not much better, I fancy. They have been living in some out-of-the-way place, I forget where, for some years, since the father’s death, and he was an old friend of mother’s, and his parents were very good to her long ago, when her parents died. So she wants to be kind to this girl, and she’s rather put her upon Florence and me, and—I don’t see that it’s anything to fuss about, but—”
“As you have never fussed about anything since you were born, Alicia, it isn’t to be expected you will begin now,” said Florence.
“No, Rex, it’s on my shoulders altogether, and I do say it’s too bad. It’s seven years ago since I was eighteen, I’ve forgotten all about it. I don’t understand girls of that age, and I have my hands full of other things, too. And—”
“Make her over to Trixie,” said Oliver.
“Trixie’s only a year older.”
Florence glanced at him with contempt. This second time of the suggestion as to Trixie being made, she did not condescend to notice it in words.