Pen tried to make a diversion. "I see that Virginia Villa is taken," she unexpectedly remarked. "People are arriving there."
"Oh, ever so long ago," piped Frip's little soprano. "There were two whole waggons there, and another next day. And, oh, such a funny lady, mummie—dressed all anyhow. She'd got a sort of big apron-pinafore all over her frock, and she stood outside the door in it giving orders. And she spoke in a sort of slow way, and made the men hurry, and told them just exactly where every single thing was to go. She was funny."
Magda writhed internally.
"And the Vicarage gardener was going by, just when they were getting the furniture down, and they couldn't manage the piano right. And she said to him—'Will you give a helping hand, my man?' John did it directly, and he didn't seem to mind. But it was funny of her, wasn't it? And there was one of those wicker things, like what Pen hangs her skirt on when she's making one."
"Another dressmaker, I suppose," Pen remarked. "I only hope she will be as good as the last. Such a pity she married and went away. I always liked her style. I wonder if this one will have any style."
Mrs. Royston half smiled. "Judging from Frip's description of her dress, that is doubtful."
"Any plate with a name on the door, Frip?"
Frip shook a wise little head. "I didn't see one, but she mightn't have had time to put it up yet, might she?"
Magda said nothing. She felt that she could say nothing. Not at all events just then. She wished with all her heart that she had spoken out sooner. Now—how could she? To have her friend's mother taken for a dressmaker! It was hopeless!
Luncheon ended, she felt scared and unhappy. The thought of Merryl went out of her head. She was bewildered, and perplexed what line to follow.