“It was a hired hansom she came in,” observed Mrs. Hancock, cheerfully. “And did you notice that she ate three of those fried croquettes for lunch? Her stummick can’t be so very sensitive, after all! I shall have to tell my husband!”
Certainly, Ernestine’s pitcher of ice-water had had a wonderfully quenching effect! But Mrs. Hudson is going, and, as I said, we can’t afford it.
“I was only trying to help,” murmurs Ernie, mournfully pulling off one of her long stockings, as she sits on the floor in the middle of our little room. “Do stop writing, Elizabeth, and come to bed. There is a smudge of ink on the tip of your nose where you dipped it in the bottle, and I just know you are saying it is all my fault!”
Dear little Ernie, how did she ever guess?
Tuesday, December 2.
Mrs. Hudson left this afternoon, despite the fact that Ernie apologised to her very meekly this morning.
“Do you really think I ought, mother?” Ernie asked.
“Yes, dear; I do,” mother answered. “She was frightened and hurt and we are all sorry.”
Ernie made a wry face. “Perhaps she’ll stay, if she knows I did not mean it,” she said.
“No,” answered mother. “I am sure that she will not. It is not for that reason that I want you to apologise. Apart from the financial inconvenience I can’t regret Mrs. Hudson’s decision. In some ways it will be a great relief.”