“Won’t you sit down?” she said; and Pennie having edged herself on to one of the high leather-covered chairs against the wall, she left her and returned to the group by the fire.
Pennie examined them.
“That must be Ethel,” she thought, “and the tallest is Joyce, and the two with frocks alike must be Katharine and Sabine. It isn’t nice of them not to take any notice of a visitor. We shouldn’t do it at home.”
Presently other children arrived, and then Miss Lacy, the governess, joined them. She went up to Pennie and asked her name.
“Why, of course,” she said, “I ought to have remembered you. Ethel, come here and talk to Penelope. You two are just the same age, I think,” she added as Ethel turned reluctantly from the group near the fire.
Pennie was very tired of hearing that she and Ethel were just the same age, and it did not seem to her any reason at all that they should want to know each other. Ethel, too, looked unwilling to be forced into a friendship, as she came listlessly forward and sat down by Pennie’s side.
“Are you fond of dancing?” she inquired in a cold voice.
“I don’t know,” said Pennie, “I never tried. I don’t think I shall be,” she added.
Ethel was silent, employing the interval in a searching examination of her companion, from the tucker in her frock, to the strapped shoes on her feet. She had a way of half-closing her eyes while she did this, that Pennie felt to be extremely offensive. “I don’t like her at all,” she said to herself, “and if she doesn’t want to talk to me, I’m sure I don’t want to talk to her.”
“We’ve always been taught by Miss Lacy,” said Ethel at last, “but of course it’s much better to have a master.”