“Don’t you find them proud and stuck up at all?” was the shrewd query that followed.
“Well—there may be some who are addicted to that sin,” laughed Beth.
“They tell me there are none but rich girls here,” went on Cynthia Fogg. “Philo Grimshaw’s daughter is one. Philo Grimshaw, you know, is the big soap manufacturer. The Grimshaws never let people forget that they have money, and people can never forget how the money is obtained,” and Cynthia’s mellow laugh did not sound as kind as usual.
Beth thought it not right to discuss the characters of the girls with one of the maids. Perhaps Miss Hammersly or the madam would not like it. So the girl from Hudsonvale said:
“Do you like the madam, Cynthia?”
Cynthia looked up from her dusting, and there was a queer look on her features. “Hist!” she said. “Here she comes. Watch her.”
Beth had not heard her coming, but looking upward she saw the madam at the head of the stairs. She had not met her since the first evening when she and Molly, with Cynthia Fogg, had had their interview with her. Now, while Madam Hammersly was descending the staircase, Beth had a better opportunity to scrutinize her.
She certainly was a very prim old lady. She was dressed in rustling silk, every fold of which lay just so. Her cap was wonderful in its starchiness; the lace at her throat and wrists was beautiful. In one hand she carried a fine cambric handkerchief which, now and then as she descended the stairs, she touched to the spindles of the railing or flirted into the carvings, glancing at it sharply through her eyeglasses to see if any dust lurked there.
Cynthia winked drolly at Beth. “If she catches us leaving anything undone,” whispered the freckled girl, “good-night!”
Beth stepped aside, waiting to greet the madam when she reached the hall. The lady greeted her with a smile.