“No,” answered Sophia Jane snappishly, “I wouldn’t.” Such an angry gleam came into her eyes that Susan, remembering she was not to vex or thwart her, resigned herself to be questioned. Her heart beat quickly. What would the first question be? It was quite an easy one.
“Did she like it?” asked Sophia Jane, settling herself comfortably on her elbow, and staring at her companion.
“Very much indeed,” answered Susan.
“Did it fit him? Tell me all about it.”
“Beautifully. I put it on myself, and he looked very nice in it. I had dinner with Mademoiselle, and she made an omelette—and coffee—and I helped to lay the table—and to wash the things afterwards—and she told me Monsieur has got some more lessons. Then she brought me home, and on the way we saw Mrs Jones standing in the door of the shop. She’s not a nice-looking woman, but Mademoiselle says she has a noble heart. I should think it must be horrid to be a butcher’s wife. Shouldn’t you?”
Pausing for a reply, Susan gave a nervous glance at her companion, whose eyes were still fixed upon her, and who took no notice whatever of the question.
“Did Mademoiselle send a message to me about the collar?” she asked.
“No, she didn’t,” said Susan. Then, seeing how crest-fallen the poor little face looked, she added hastily:
“I expect she means to come and thank you herself, or perhaps to write you a letter.”
A small tear had gathered in each of Sophia Jane’s eyes, but she winked them quickly away.