“No, no. That isn’t the secret. The secret is where I got the taste for such things. You promise not to mention this?”
“I promise,” replied Molly gravely, repressing the smile that for an instant hovered on her lips.
“The silversmith grandfather had a brother who was a merchant. He had a shop in Florence where he sold all sorts of beautiful fabrics, velvets and brocades and lots of antique things.”
“No doubt it was an antique shop,” thought Molly.
“Mamma remembers it well, and the shop is still there to-day, but it’s in other hands.”
Molly felt much amusement at this explanation of heredity. It would not be difficult to add a few lines to Millicent’s small, thin face and place it on the shoulders of the old silversmith or of his brother, the dealer in antiques. How would they feel if they could hear this granddaughter conversing about society and the classics?
“But I have rattled on. Here I have told you two family secrets. But of course they will go no farther. You know more about me than any girl in Wellington. Won’t you come over to dinner with me Saturday evening and see my studio?”
“I am so sorry,” said Molly, “but I have an engagement,”—to try to write a sincere, natural, simple short story, she added, in her mind.
“Oh, dear, what a nuisance! Can you come Sunday? They have horrid early dinners Sunday, but no matter.”
Molly was obliged to accept, anxious as she was to keep out of the Beta Phi crowd.