“If she would let us beg for her, even! The Government might do something. But she won’t hear of it. Then she says she’ll go. Where to? What can she do? If she won’t beg, she’d starve. We can’t let her starve, can we? But times aren’t good, and—— Oh, well, I must give you some tea. Would you mind ringing?”
I obeyed. Merry laughs came from the children on the lawn.
“The kids seem to like her,” said I, for want of better consolation.
“She’s very nice to them. She’s helping them with their French.” She caught me looking at her and blushed a little. I had not seen Mrs Thistleton blush before. Suddenly the plan came before my eyes. There was no need to blush for it; it seemed to me rather great—rather great, perhaps, on both sides, but greater on Mrs Thistleton’s. “It gives her a sense of—of doing something in return, I suppose,” Mrs Thistleton went on.
The maid brought in tea.
“Is nursery tea ready?” Mrs Thistleton asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then send the children upstairs and tell the Countess that tea is here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Soon the Countess came—as small, as slight, as dark as ever, even more timid. I rose as she entered; she bowed nervously, and, going to the table, busied herself with making the tea. Mrs Thistleton lay back in her arm-chair.