When they had gone their father laughed quietly.
"It is a nice letter. I expect they will find he will give them leave, if they behave themselves. But they have been playing tricks on the workmen—and on his servants, as I gather."
"They are always in mischief," said their mother, and her tone was not the tone of one who lamented. "But they are not generally rude. I am afraid they have heard the things that are being said against this man. Perhaps Marjorie had better go with them? He will not be rude to her?"
"No. 'This man,' as you call him, is one of the Pelhams of Lente. Yes, she can take them. Mrs. Lytchett was suggesting to me just now that she was growing up, and that she ought to have some lessons——"
"I wish Mrs. Lytchett would mind her own business!" flashed out the mother. "Marjorie is as well educated as she is, though I should be sorry to see her so meddlesome."
Then her ill-temper vanished, and she smiled serenely.
"Marjorie was writing a sonnet on Love whilst you were at church. She seemed quite equal to the composition, but lacked facts."
"Marjorie's lack of facts doesn't often curb her imagination," her father said. "I do not think it was her education that Mrs. Lytchett thought wanted improving—though it does—but her deportment, whatever that is, and—and manners."
"She carries herself like a queen," asserted her mother, "even though she is thin and awkward yet. And her manners—should you wish them altered, father?"