There was such a general sound of subdued laughter at this from the guests, who had all kept silence to listen to the dean’s jokes, that Pennie saw she had said something silly, though she had no idea what it could be. All the faces were turned upon her with smiles, and the dean, quite ignorant of the misery he was causing her, drank up his coffee well pleased.
“And so,” he continued, as he put down his cup, “you’re going to see the dissolving views. And are you as much interested in the Karawayo missions as my young folks?”
Poor Pennie! She was a rigidly truthful child, and she knew there could be only one answer to this question. Miss Unity had told her that the Merridew girls were very much interested, whereas she knew she was not interested at all. Deeply humiliated, and flushing scarlet, she replied in a very small voice, “No.”
The dean raised his eyebrows.
“Dear me, dear me!” he said, pretending to be shocked. “How’s this, Miss Unity? We must teach your god-daughter better.”
Pennie felt she could not bear to be held up to public notice much longer. The hot tears rose in her eyes; if the dean asked her any more questions she was afraid she should cry, and that, at her age, with everyone looking at her, would be a lasting disgrace.
At this moment sympathy came from an unexpected quarter. A hand stole into hers, and Sabine’s voice whispered:
“Don’t mind. I don’t care for them either.”
It was wonderfully comforting. Pennie gulped down her tears and tried to smile her thanks, and just then general attention was turned another way. Some one asked Dr Merridew if he were going to the Institute that evening.
“I’m extremely sorry to say no,” he replied, his smiles disappearing, and his lips pursed seriously together. “Important matters keep me at home. But I much regret it.”