Little Mrs. Dwyer raised her hands in protest.
“It doesn't seem natural, somehow. It doesn't seem exactly—moral, my dear.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Hayden. “Mrs. Leffingwell is only giving the child the advantages which her companions have—Emily has French, hasn't she?”
“But Emily can't speak it—that way,” said Mrs. Dwyer. “I don't blame Mary Leffingwell. She thinks she is doing her duty, but it has always seemed to me that Honora was one of those children who would better have been brought up on bread and butter and jam.”
“Honora would only have eaten the jam,” said Mrs. Hayden. “But I love her.”
“I, too, am fond of the child, but I tremble for her. I am afraid she has that terrible thing which is called temperament.”
George Hanbury made a second heroic rush, and dragged Honora out once more.
“What is this disease you've got?” he demanded.
“Disease?” she cried; “I haven't any disease.”
“Mrs Dwyer says you have temperament, and that it is a terrible thing.”