"I don't think it's that," said Georgie, rather wearily. "I think she's nice because she's naturally so kind-hearted, and she likes me."
The tea-bell put an end to the discussion. Miss Sally's welcome was a good deal warmer than Cousin Vi's had been.
"You poor dear child," she exclaimed, "you look quite tired out! Here, take this seat by the fire, Georgie, and I'll pour your tea out first of all. She needs it, don't she?" to Cousin Vi.
"Miss Talcott is rather tired, I dare say," said that lady, icily. Cousin Vi had lived for sixteen years in daily intercourse with Miss Sally, one of the sunniest and most friendly of women, and had never once relaxed into cordiality in all that time. Her code of manners included no approximation toward familiarity between a Talcott and a letter of lodgings.
Georgie took a different view. "Thank you so much, dear Miss Sally," she said. "How good you are! I am tired."
"I wish you wouldn't call Miss Sally 'dear,'" her cousin remarked after they had gone upstairs. "That sort of thing is most disagreeable to me. You have to be on your guard continually in a house like this, or you get mixed up with all sorts of people."
Georgie let it pass. She was too tired to argue.
"Now, let us talk about your plans," Miss Talcott said next morning. "Have you made any yet?"
"N—o; only that I must find some work to do at once."
"Don't speak like that to any one but me," her cousin said sharply. "There are lady-like occupations, of course, in which you can—can—mingle; but they need not be mentioned, or made known to people in general."