Mr. Ward frowned.
"Noel, I will not have you call Mollie by that name. A jest is a jest, but it must not be carried too far."
"Pegtop, then," returned Noel, unabashed by this rebuke, for behind his father's back he winked at Mollie. "But he was not a bad sort of chap. He would be rather useful on an east-windy, dismal sort of a day—he would make you feel cheerful. I like a fellow who can take a joke without turning rusty over it"—and from Noel this was high praise.
Mollie thought the evening dreadfully long, and she fidgeted so much, and looked at the clock so often, that her father called her drowsy-head, and begged her to go to bed; but this made her redden with confusion. And then, when they were safe in their room, Waveney chose to be ridiculous and cut capers. But as soon as her little song was finished she produced an old shepherd's plaid rug, which was known in family annals as "the Lamb," and they both crept under it, and tucked up their feet on the window-seat, and felt cosy.
And if an artist could have drawn the picture, it would have made his fortune, for the rough old plaid set off Mollie's exquisite face and glorious golden brown hair to perfection, while Waveney's looked fair and infantine in the moonlight.
Waveney was the talker now, and Mollie was the listener, but every now and then there were little interjections of surprise and admiration. At the description of "Fairy Magnificent" Mollie drew in her breath and said "Oh!" Miss Harford's ugliness rather shocked her; she said "It was a great pity, and Waveney had never been used to live with ugly people"—which was perfectly true.
She thought Queen Elizabeth's Wraith a rather far-fetched description. She could not endure Queen Bess; she was such an unladylike person, and boxed gentlemen's ears. And if Miss Althea were like her——But here Waveney interposed.
"Don't be a little goose, Moll. She is like Queen Elizabeth, and you would say the same yourself if you saw her; but she is so nice and gentle that I am sure I shall soon love her. Well, let me go on. I want to tell you about the Red House." Then Mollie sighed with satisfaction, and composed herself to listen.
Mollie, with all her sweetness and goodness, was a little Sybarite at heart. She loved pretty things, fine house, gems, beautiful dresses. Mr. Ward had been almost shocked when he had taken her one day to Bond Street to look at the shops. It was impossible to get her away from the jewellers'; the diamond tiaras and necklets riveted her. "Who buys them, dad?" she had asked, in quite a loud voice; "dukes and earls, and those sort of people?"
"Yes, of course," returned Mr. Ward, a little impatiently, "and the Prince of Wales, I daresay;" for he was rather provoked at the attention the child was exciting. Two gentlemen who were passing, and had overheard Mollie's remark, smiled at each other.