"What are you saying, my dear ?" she asked.
Sylvia frowned at Molly across the table.

Too well did she know the peculiarly meek and submissive tone of voice assumed by Molly when bent on--had the subject been any less serious than it was, Sylvia would have called it "mischief." "Molly," she said reprovingly, finding her frowns calmly ignored.
"What is it ?" said Molly sweetly.

"I mean, grandmother dear," she proceeded, "I mean the mother of the poor nice man that uncle was so good to.

Wasn't she _dreadfully_ sorry when she heard he was dead ?" "I think she was, dear," said grandmother unsuspiciously.

"Poor woman, whatever her mistakes with her children had been, I felt dreadfully sorry for her.