So this was another drop of bitterness added to Pennie’s little cup of troubles. It was not only that the shoes were shabby, but they fastened with a button and a strap. She felt quite sure that the Merridews and all the other children at the class would wear shoes with sandals, and this was a most tormenting thought. She saw a vision of rows of elegantly shod feet, and one shabby misshapen pair amongst them.
“I think I want new shoes quite as much as Kettles does,” she said one day to Nancy.
“You might have mine if you like,” said Nancy, who was always ready to lend or give her things, “but I suppose they’d be too small.”
“I can just squeeze into them,” said Pennie, “and while I stand-still I can bear it—but I couldn’t walk without screaming.”
The dreaded day came, as all days must whether we want them or not, and Pennie found herself walking across the Close to the deanery with Betty, who carried a little parcel with the old shoes and a pair of black mittens in it. The grey Cathedral looked gravely down upon them as they passed, and Pennie looked up to where her own special monster perched grinning on his water-spout. The children had each chosen one of these grotesque figures to be their very own, and had given them names; Pennie called hers the Griffin. He had wings and claws, a long neck, and a half-human face, and seemed to be just poised for flight—as though at any moment he might spring away from his resting-place, and alight on the smooth green turf just outside the dean’s door. Pennie often wondered what Dr Merridew would say if he found him there, but just now she had no room for such fancies; she only felt sure of the Griffin’s sympathy, and said to herself as she nodded to him:
“When I see you again I shall be glad, because it will be over, and I shall be going home to tea.” Another moment and they had arrived at the deanery.
“Miss Unity wishes to know, please, what time Miss Hawthorne is to be fetched,” asked Betty.
It seemed odd to Pennie that she could not run across the Close to Miss Unity’s house alone, but this by no means suited her godmother’s ideas of propriety.
Having taken off her hat, changed her shoes, and put on the black mittens, Pennie was conducted to the dining-room, which was already prepared for the dancing-class, with the large table pushed into the window and the chairs placed solemnly round close to the wall. Some girls, who were chatting and laughing near the fire, all stopped short as she entered, and for one awful moment stared at the new-comer in silence.
Pennie felt that no one knew who she was; she stood pulling nervously at her mittens, a forlorn little being in a strange land. At last one of the girls came forward and shook hands with her.