'Mother, I want to talk to you about Mollie,' he said with unusual abruptness, as he threw himself down in a cushioned chair opposite his mother's little work-table.
'Yes, dear,' she returned tranquilly, pausing to admire an exquisitely-worked initial.
'I found her in the kitchen just now, with her face the colour of a peony, ironing out a lot of things. The place was like a furnace; I could not have stood it for a quarter of an hour. Surely, mother, there is no need for Mollie to slave in this way.'
'Do you call ironing a few fine things slavery?' replied Mrs. Blake in an amused voice. 'In our great-grandmothers' time girls did more than that. Mollie is not overworked, I assure you.'
'Then what makes her look so done up?'
'Oh, that is nothing! She is growing so fast, you know; and growing girls have that look. Mollie is as strong as a horse, really—at her age I was far weaker. Mollie is a good child, but she is a little given to grumbling and making a fuss about trifles.'
'Oh, I don't agree with you there.'
'That is because you do not understand girls,' returned his mother composedly. 'But you may safely leave Mollie to me. Am I likely to overwork one of my own children? Should I be worthy of the name of mother?'
'Yes, but you might not see your way to help it—that is, as long as you persist in your ridiculous resolution of keeping Biddy. Why, she ought to have been shelved long ago.'
'That is my affair, Cyril,' replied Mrs. Blake with unusual dignity.