Amy listened with dissatisfied annoyance. She might be vexed and jealous with Bee; she might even stoop to a momentary revenge; but she did not wish her darling to be unhappy, or to be ousted by "this red-haired upstart of a school-girl," as she contemptuously stigmatised Magda in her mind. Yet, looking on, she knew that the "red-haired school-girl" was not without charm, and also that Ivor was not unconscious of that charm. There was a touch of unwonted brightness about Magda, both in colouring and in manner; and the contrast of Bee's impassive pallor was marked.
Now and again the latter made some slight remark, just enough for politeness, and no more. Amy grew annoyed. Why did not Bee exert herself to be agreeable? Why leave the field clear for "that conceited child"? Amy had abundance of adjectives at command, and she often found them a relief to her feelings.
"I should just love to go up a Swiss mountain," Magda was saying. "No, I've never been to Switzerland. I've done some scrambling on English cliffs and places, with Rob—and once he took me to Scotland, and we had some real climbs there. That was three years ago. Only rocky places—not ice and snow."
"Rock-climbing may be quite as difficult, and may need as much care. There is many an English rock-face, where a slip might be as fatal as on a Swiss mountain."
"Only it doesn't sound so grand. That climb of Bee and Miss Smith last year sounds much more than what I did with Rob in Scotland—but I don't believe it was really. When they went to the Hut, I mean."
They both looked towards Bee, and she said mechanically—
"No, I dare say not."
"It was fortunate for me that Miss Major should have undertaken the expedition," observed Ivor.
"If I had not, somebody else would have been there," Bee murmured; and Amy put in an impulsive word, kindly meant—
"My dear, nobody else would have been likely to glue herself to the telescope for hours, as you did: You should have seen her—" this was addressed direct to Ivor—"hour after hour, watching and watching. Nothing would make her stir, when once she settled in her mind that you were in danger. She held on 'like grim death,' no matter what the guides or I might say." It suddenly dawned upon Amy that the "you" which she perhaps meant in the plural might be taken as in the singular; and she made matters worse by hastily adding, as an after-thought, and with a little laugh—"Of course I mean—you both—you and Mr. Royston."