"I think perhaps Mr. Amherst's incivility toward you arose from his dislike to your mother's marriage. You don't mind my speaking, do you? It was more than good of you to come here at all, considering the circumstances,--I don't believe I could have been so forgiving,--but I know he felt very bitterly on the subject, and does so still." "Does he? How very absurd! Amhersts cannot always marry Amhersts, nor would it be a good thing if they could. I suppose, however, even he can be forgiving at times. Now, for instance, how did he get over your father's marriage?" Marcia raises her head quickly. Her color deepens. She turns a glance full of displeased suspicion upon her companion, who meets it calmly, and with such an amount of innocence in hers as might have disarmed a Machiavelli. Not a shadow of intention mars her expression; her widely-opened blue eyes contain only a desire to know; and Marcia, angry, disconcerted, and puzzled, lets her gaze return to her work. A dim idea that it will not be so easy to ride rough-shod over this country-bred girl as she had hoped oppresses her, while a still more unpleasant doubt that her intended snubbing has recoiled upon her own head adds to her discontent. Partly through policy and partly with a view to showing this recreant Molly the rudeness of her ways, she refuses an answer to her question and starts a different topic in a still more freezing tone. "You found your room comfortable, I hope, and--all that?" "Quite all that, thank you," cordially. "And such a pretty room too!" (She is unaware as she speaks that it is one of the plainest the house contains.) "How large everything seems! When coming down through all those corridors and halls I very nearly lost my way. Stupid of me was it not? But it is an enormous house, I can see." "Is it? Perhaps so. Very much the size of most country houses, I should say. And yet, no doubt, to a stranger it would seem large. Your own home is not so?" "Oh, no. If you could only see poor Brooklyn in comparison! It is the prettiest little place in all the world, I think; but then it _is_ little. It would require a tremendous amount of genius to lose one's self in Brooklyn." "How late it grows!" says Marcia, looking at the clock and rising. "The first bell ought to ring soon. Which would you prefer,--your tea here or in your own room? I always adopt the latter plan when the house is empty, and take it while dressing. By the bye, you have not seen--Mr. Amherst?" "My grandfather? No." "Perhaps he had better be told you are here." "Has he not yet heard of my arrival?" asks Molly, impulsively, some faint indignation stirring in her breast. "He knew you were coming, of course; I am not sure if he remembered the exact hour. If you will come with me, I will take you to the library."