"My dear, I always mean my words to be taken literally. I do not understand your arts of rhetoric. I will send Rotha up stairs, if she will be so obliging as to gratify my whim."
He looked at Rotha as he spoke, and Rotha half rose from her seat; when Antoinette suddenly dashed past her, saying, "I will fetch it"—and ran off up stairs. Rotha sat down again, much confounded at this benevolence, and wondering what that was not benevolent might lie beneath it. Mrs. Busby pursed up her mouth and looked at nobody. Presently Antoinette came down again. In her hand she held a little grey plush hat, somewhat worn but very jaunty, with a long grey feather, curled round it. This hat she held out on the tips of her fingers for her father's inspection. Rotha's eyes grew large with astonishment. Mrs. Busby's lips twitched. Antoinette looked daring and mischievous. Mr. Busby innocently surveyed the grey plush and feather.
"So that is what you call a hat for a poor girl?" he said. "It seems to me, if I remember, that is very like one you used to wear, Nettie."
"Yes, papa, it is; but this is Rotha's."
"Mrs. Busby, was this your choice?"
"Yes, Mr. Busby."
"Then of course this is proper for Rotha. Now will you explain to me why it is not equally proper for Antoinette? But this is not what I should have called a hat for a poor girl, my dear."
"Mr. Busby, while Rotha lives with us, it is necessary to have a certain conformity—there cannot be too much difference made."
"Hum—ha!" said the bewildered man. Rotha by this time had got her breath.
"That is not my hat however, Mr. Busby," she said, with cheeks on fire.