“Of course,” said Cynthia.
Miss Cassandra shrugged as though that were beyond her comprehension.
“I'd die in a place like this,” she said. “No balls, or theatres. Doesn't your father take you around the state?”
“My father's dead,” said Cynthia.
“Oh! Your name's Cynthia Wetherell, isn't it? You know Bob Worthington, don't you? He's gone to Harvard now, but he was a great friend of mine at Andover.”
Cynthia didn't answer. It would not be fair to say that she felt a pang, though it might add to the romance of this narrative. But her dislike for the girl in the sleigh decidedly increased. How was she, in her inexperience, to know that the radiant beauty in furs was what the boys at Phillips Andover called an “old stager.”
“So you live with Jethro Bass,” was Miss Cassandra's next remark. “He's rich enough to take you round the state and give you everything you want.”
“I have everything I want,” replied Cynthia.
“I shouldn't call living here having everything I wanted,” declared Miss Hopkins, with a contemptuous glance at the tannery house.
“I suppose you wouldn't,” said Cynthia.