"They are talking about France," said Roger, in answer to Molly's
unspoken question. "Osborne knows it well, and Miss Kirkpatrick has
been at school there, you know. It sounds very interesting; shall we
go nearer and hear what they are saying?"
It was all very well to ask this civilly, but Molly thought it would
have been better to wait for her answer. Instead of waiting, however,
Roger went to the piano, and, leaning on it, appeared to join in the
light merry talk, while he feasted his eyes as much as he dared by
looking at Cynthia. Molly suddenly felt as if she could scarcely keep
from crying--a minute ago he had been so near to her, and talking so
pleasantly and confidentially; and now he almost seemed as if he had
forgotten her existence. She thought that all this was wrong; and
she exaggerated its wrongness to herself; "mean," and "envious of
Cynthia," and "ill-natured," and "selfish," were the terms she kept
applying to herself; but it did no good, she was just as naughty at
the last as at the first.
Mrs. Gibson broke into the state of things which Molly thought was to
endure for ever. Her work had been intricate up to this time, and had
required a great deal of counting; so she had had no time to attend
to her duties, one of which she always took to be to show herself to
the world as an impartial stepmother. Cynthia had played and sung,
and now she must give Molly her turn of exhibition. Cynthia's singing
and playing was light and graceful, but anything but correct; but
she herself was so charming, that it was only fanatics for music who
cared for false chords and omitted notes. Molly, on the contrary, had
an excellent ear, if she had ever been well taught; and both from
inclination and conscientious perseverance of disposition, she would
go over an incorrect passage for twenty times. But she was very shy
of playing in company; and when forced to do it, she went through her
performance heavily, and hated her handiwork more than any one.
"Now, you must play a little, Molly," said Mrs. Gibson; "play us that
beautiful piece of Kalkbrenner's, my dear."
Molly looked up at her stepmother with beseeching eyes; but it only
brought out another form of request, still more like a command.
"Go at once, my dear. You may not play it quite rightly; and I know
you are very nervous; but you're quite amongst friends."
So there was a disturbance made in the little group at the piano, and
Molly sate down to her martyrdom.