“Mother is rather a tomboy,” said Lancelot, coolly. “I think Mrs Percy had best understand the truth from the first, and then she will never be shocked at our goings on.”
“You impertinent boy,” said his mother, laughing up at him. He was a great deal taller than she. “You shouldn’t waste your time in writing verses, instead of doing your lessons, should he, Mrs Percy?”
This hint silenced Lancey effectually. And soon all the children dispersed, and Mrs Whyte took mamma away into the house. Only Yvonne and the fair-haired girl, who, I knew, must of course be Mary, stayed with me. I had not yet spoken—I had felt so completely bewildered by the contrast between the real Mrs Whyte and the fancy picture I had been drawing of her just the moment before, that no words came to my lips.
Yvonne thought that I was feeling shy, I suppose, and to put me at my ease she drew forward her sister.
“This is ‘plain Mary,’ Connie,” she said. “I see I must introduce you formally. Doesn’t she suit her name?” she added, and I could hear in her tone how proud she was of Mary.
No wonder. Mary was so pretty. She was very, very fair—and she seemed even fairer beside her rather gipsy-like mother and sister. But she had dark eyes, much darker than mine; I am not speaking of myself out of conceit, truly, but because I know that fair hair and dark eyes are thought pretty, as mamma has often praised mine, and Mary’s hair is fairer and her eyes darker than mine, and she has a very sweet expression, what is called an “appealing” expression, I think. She stood there glancing up at Evey in a little timid way, as if accustomed to be protected and directed by her, that I did think so sweet. I had not one atom of jealousy—I am so glad I hadn’t—in my thoughts as I looked at her, even though there was a sort of likeness between her and me that might have made me feel jealous of her being so much prettier. But then, this particular kind of envy has not been my temptation; so it wasn’t any goodness in me not to feel it. I just stood looking at Mary with a real nice pleasure in her sweetness. And she looked at me with a shy smile in her eyes, and Yvonne looked at us both for a moment in silence. Then she gave a sort of jump and clapped her hands.
“Connie,” she said, “I knew there was something that made me feel sure I’d love you at once. Do you know you and Mary are really rather like each other? I wonder if the others have seen it?”
I felt myself get rosy with pleasure.
“Are we really?” I said. “I am so glad.”