“I suppose that is so,” agreed Mrs. Severn, laughing. “But they say you are quite wonderful at mending.”
“Oh, no,” Beth replied. “Only painstaking.”
“Why! I guess that must be wonderful in this day and generation,” and the lady smiled one of her rare smiles again. “How pretty you are, child.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Severn.”
“I had much your style of looks and figure when I was your age, my dear,” said Mrs. Severn, complacently.
Beth trembled. Then she remembered that, by no possibility, was there any blood relationship between her and Mrs. Severn, so there was hope that she might not, in the end, acquire the good lady’s present personal appearance.
“I did not know that any of the students of Rivercliff had gumption enough to do anything useful,” went on Mrs. Severn, nodding her head.
“Take a seat, my dear. Don’t come too near my gouty foot. Gout runs in our family—and we date back to William the Conqueror.”
“Oh! the noble Duke of York—he had ten thousand men!” began the parrot, as though feeling that something was expected of him to substantiate his mistress’ appeal to ancient history.
“Shut up, Mr. Montague!” commanded Mrs. Severn. Then to Beth: “He is a dreadfully saucy bird. His full name is Mr. Dennis Montague——”