“And how,” said that lady, having supplied her with scissors and paper, “do you get on with Anna Forrest? You’re with Mr Goodwin so much, I suppose you know her quite well by this time.”
“Indeed, I don’t,” said Delia. “I haven’t even seen her yet; have you?”
“I’ve seen her twice,” said Mrs Winn. “She’s pretty enough, though not to be compared to her mother; more like the Forrests, and has her father’s pleasant manners. If looks were the only things to consider, she would do very well.”
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Delia, bluntly, for Mrs Winn spoke as though she knew much more than she expressed.
“Why, I’ve every reason to suppose,” she began deliberately—then breaking off—“Take care, Delia,” she exclaimed; “you’re cutting that cover too narrow. Let me show you. You must leave a good bit to tuck under, don’t you see, or it will be off again directly.”
Delia had never in her life been so anxious for Mrs Winn to finish a sentence, but she tried to control her impatience, and bent her attention to the brown paper cover.
“It only shows,” continued Mrs Winn, when her instructions were ended, “that I was right in what I said the other day about Mr Bernard Forrest’s marriage. That sort of thing never answers. That child has evidently been brought up without a strict regard for truth.”
“What has she done?” asked Delia.
“Not, of course,” said Mrs Winn, “that poor Prissy could have had anything to do with that.”
The book Delia held slipped from her impatient fingers, and fell to the ground flat on its face.