Cynthia hesitated a moment, plucking up the grass with her tiny hands. Then she said: “ Mrs. Cavendish does. She hates me.”

“Hates you?” I cried, astonished.

Cynthia nodded.

“Yes. I don’t know why, but she can’t bear me; and he can’t, either.”

“There I know you’re wrong,” I said warmly. “On the contrary, John is very fond of you.”

“Oh, yes⁠— John . I meant Lawrence. Not, of course, that I care whether Lawrence hates me or not. Still, it’s rather horrid when no one loves you, isn’t it?”