Lucy, coming back from leading her aunt to the carriage, found Gertrude silent, pale, and trembling with rage. "How dare she!" she said below her breath.
"She is only very silly," answered Lucy; "I confess I began to wonder if I was an ill-conducted pauper, or a lunatic, or something of the sort, from the tone of her voice."
"She spoke so loud," said Gertrude, pressing her hand to her head.
"I never felt so labelled and docketed in my life," cried Phyllis; "This is a poor person, seemed to be written all over my clothes. Poor Fred's chuckles and 'By Joves' were much more comfortable."
Kettle came into the room with a letter addressed to Miss G. Lorimer.
"It is from Mr. Russel," she said, examining the postmark, and broke the seal with anxious fingers.
Mr. Russel was the friend of their father to whom she had applied for advice the day before. He carried on a large and world-famed business as a photographer in the north of England; to the disgust of a family that had starved respectably on scholarship for several generations.
Gertrude's mobile face brightened as she read the letter. "Mr. Russel is most encouraging," she said; "and very kind. He is actually coming to London to talk it over with us, and examine our work. And he even hints that one of us should go back with him to learn about things; but perhaps that will not be necessary."
Every one seized on the kind letter, and the air was filled with the praises of its writer, Fanny even going so far as to call him a darling.
Gertrude, walking up and down the room, stopped suddenly and said: "Let us make some good resolutions!"