"You've had another letter, you say, my dear?" asked Miss Browning.
"I daresay Mrs. Gibson has written to you this time?"
"It is a large sheet, and Cynthia has written on one half to me, and
all the rest is to papa."
"A very nice arrangement, I'm sure. And what does Cynthia say? Is she
enjoying herself?"
"Oh, yes, I think so. They've had a dinner-party; and one night,
when mamma was at Lady Cumnor's, Cynthia went to the play with her
cousins."
"Upon my word! and all in one week? I do call that dissipation. Why,
Thursday would be taken up with the journey, and Friday with resting,
and Sunday is Sunday all the world over; and they must have written
on Tuesday. Well! I hope Cynthia won't find Hollingford dull, that's
all, when she comes back."
"I don't think it's likely," said Miss Phoebe, with a little simper
and a knowing look, which sate oddly on her kindly innocent face.
"You see a great deal of Mr. Preston, don't you, Molly?"
"Mr. Preston!" said Molly, flushing up with surprise. "No! not much.
He's been at Ashcombe all winter, you know! He has but just come back
to settle here. What should make you think so?"
"Oh! a little bird told us," said Miss Browning. Molly knew that
little bird from her childhood, and had always hated it, and longed
to wring its neck. Why could not people speak out and say that they
did not mean to give up the name of their informant? But it was a
very favourite form of fiction with the Miss Brownings, and to Miss
Phoebe it was the very acme of wit.
"The little bird was flying about one day in Heath Lane, and it saw
Mr. Preston and a young lady--we won't say who--walking together in
a very friendly manner, that is to say, he was on horseback; but the
path is raised above the road, just where there is the little wooden
bridge over the brook--"
"Perhaps Molly is in the secret, and we ought not to ask her about
it," said Miss Phoebe, seeing Molly's extreme discomfiture and
annoyance.
"It can be no great secret," said Miss Browning, dropping the
little-bird formula, and assuming an air of dignified reproval at
Miss Phoebe's interruption, "for Miss Hornblower says Mr. Preston
owns to being engaged--"
"At any rate it isn't to Cynthia, that I know positively," said Molly
with some vehemence. "And pray put a stop to any such reports; you
don't know what mischief they may do. I do so hate that kind of
chatter!" It was not very respectful of Molly to speak in this way
to be sure, but she thought only of Roger; and the distress any such
reports might cause, should he ever hear of them (in the centre of
Africa!) made her colour up scarlet with vexation.