It was a rather silent drive home, and Mrs. Franklin sighed to herself when Edith barely replied to her remarks. It seemed perfectly hopeless; she and Edith would never grow any nearer to each other; but there was nothing to be done.
That night, when the girls went to their room, Edith was spared the necessity of opening the subject, for Cynthia began at once.
"What a perfectly hateful creature that Bronson is! I don't see how you could go on the river with him, Edith. I think you got well paid for it."
"I don't see why you dislike him so, Cynthia. You take such tremendous prejudices. He is awfully handsome."
"Handsome! I don't admire that style. That la-da-da-it-is-I-just-please-look-at-me kind doesn't go down with me."
Cynthia thrust her hands into imaginary pockets, leaned languidly against the bedpost, and rolled her eyes.
"Er—Miss Franklin—carn't I persuade you to go out on the rivah?" she said, with an exaggerated manner and accent, and a throaty voice.
Edith laughed. Cynthia was a capital mimic.
"I like a broad A, and, of course, I never would use anything else myself, but his is broader than the Mississippi. It just shows it isn't natural to him. To hear him talk about 'darmp grarss,' and he'd just come from 'Southarmpton.' He is a regular sharm himself. I dare say he was brought up to say 'ca'm' and 'pa'm' and 'hain't' and 'ain't.'"
"Cynthia, what a goose you are!"