"Mrs. Duncombe would feel it unkind if we did not."
"You look tired," said Rosamond, kindly; "put your feet upon the
front seat--nobody will look. Do you know how much you cleared?"
"Not yet," said Cecil. "I do not know what was made by the raffles.
How I do hate them! Fancy that lovely opal Venetian vase going to
that big bony Scotswoman, Mr. M'Vie's mother."
"Indeed! That is a pity. If I had known it would be raffled for, I
would have sent a private commission, though I don't know if Julius
would have let me. He says it is gambling. What became of the Spa
work-box, with the passion-flower wreath?"
"I don't know. I was so disgusted, that I would not look any more.
I never saw such an obnoxious girl as that Miss Moy."
"_That_ she is," said Rosamond. "I should think she was acting the
fast girl as found in sensation novels."
"Exactly," said Cecil, proceeding to narrate the proposed election;
and in her need of sympathy she even told its sequel, adding,
"Rosamond, do you know what she meant?"
"Is it fair to tell you?" said Rosamond, asking a question she knew
to be vain.
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