"
"Certainly, Mrs. Ascott."
"And now," said my aunt, "I must introduce the girls to Reginald. This
is Maria, your eldest cousin, and nearly double your age, for she is
twelve. This is Jane, two years younger. This is Helen; she is nine,
and as tall as Jane, you see. This is Harriet, eight. And this is
Mary--Polly, as papa calls her--and she is nineteen months younger
than you, and a terrible tomboy already; so don't make her worse. This
is your cousin, girls, Reginald Dacre. You must amuse him among you,
and don't tease him, for he is not used to children."
We "shook hands" all round, and I liked Polly's hand the best. It was
least froggy, cold, and spiritless.
Then Mrs. Ascott departed, and Maria (overpowered by the humming)
"flopped" into her chair after a fashion that would certainly have
drawn a rebuke from Miss Blomfield if an access of eye-dimness had not
carried her to her own seat with little more grace.
Uncle Ascott had a large nose, and my cousins were the image of him
and of each other. They were plain, lady-like, rather bouncing girls,
with aquiline noses, voices with a family _twang_ that was slightly
nasal, long feet terribly given to chilblains, and long fingers, with
which they all by turns practised the same exercises on the old piano
on successive mornings before breakfast.
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