To these, Dorothy, L.
Dorothy (entering). Good-morning, aunt! Is there anything for me? (She goes eagerly to table and looks at letters.)
Miss Foster. Good-morrow, niece. Breakfast, Barbara.
Dorothy (with letter unopened). Nothing.
Miss Foster. And what do you call that, my dear? (Sitting.) Is John Fenwick nobody?
Dorothy (looking at letter). From John? O yes, so it is. (Lays letter down unopened, and sits to breakfast, Barbara waiting.)
Miss Foster (to Barbara, with plate). Thanks, child; now you may give me some tea. Dolly, I must insist on your eating a good breakfast: I cannot away with your pale cheeks and that Patience-on-a-Monument kind of look. (Toast, Barbara!) At Edenside you ate and drank and looked like Hebe. What have you done with your appetite?
Dorothy. I don’t know, aunt, I’m sure.
Miss Foster. Then consider, please, and recover it as soon as you can: to a young lady in your position a good appetite is an attraction—almost a virtue. Do you know that your brother arrives this morning?
Dorothy. Dear Anthony! Where is his letter, Aunt Evelina? I am pleased that he should leave London and its perils, if only for a day.