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"Not very wise or very kind people to say so," quoth Rosamond;
"though, by the bye, the intended sting is happily lost, considering
that it lies among five."
"Why should you assume a sting?"
"Because I see you are stung, and want to sting me," said Rosamond,
in so merry a tone that the earnestness was disguised.
"I! I'm not stung! What Mrs. Poynsett or Miss Bowater may have
schemed is nothing to me," said Cecil, with all her childish
dignity.
"People talk of Irish imagination," said Rosamond in her lazy
meditative tone.
"Well?" demanded Cecil, sharply.
"Only it is not _my_ Irish imagination that has devised this
dreadful picture of the artful Jenny and Mrs. Poynsett spinning
their toils to entrap the whole five brothers. Come, Cecil, take my
advice and put it out of your head. Suppose it were true, small
blame to Mrs. Poynsett."
"What do you mean?" said Cecil, in a voice of hurt dignity.
"I may mean myself." And Rosamond's peal of merry laughter was most
amazing and inexplicable to her companion, who was not sure that she
was not presuming to laugh at her.


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