“I don’t even know their names,” she began one night, after she and Nancy were tucked up side by side in bed.
“Why, you know there’s one called Ethel,” replied Nancy, “because whenever Mrs Merridew comes here she asks how old you are, and says, ‘Just the age of my Ethel!’”
“I don’t think I like the look of any of them much,” continued Pennie mournfully, “and—oh, Nancy, I do hope I sha’n’t see the dean!”
“Why?” asked Nancy. “I don’t mind him a bit.”
“He never makes jokes at you,” said Pennie, “so of course you don’t mind him; but whenever I meet him with father I know just what he’ll say. ‘This is Miss Penelope, isn’t it? and where’s Ulysses?’ and then he laughs. I can’t laugh, because I don’t know what he means, and I do feel so silly. Suppose he comes and says it before all the others!”
“I don’t see that it matters if he does,” replied Nancy. “You needn’t take any notice. It’s the dean who’s silly, not you.”
“It’s all very well for you,” said Pennie with an impatient kick at the bed-clothes; “you’re not going. Oh! how I wish you were! It wouldn’t be half so bad.”
“I should hate it,” said Nancy decidedly; “but,” she added, with an attempt at comfort, “there’ll be some things you like after all. There’ll be the Cathedral and the College, and old Nurse, and oh! Pennie, have you thought what a chance it’ll be to hear more about Kettles?”
But Pennie was too cast-down to take a cheerful view of anything.
“I don’t suppose I shall hear anything about her,” she said. “How should I?”