'He comes sometimes to see father on business,' Anna replied sharply, breaking one of her rules.
'Oh! Of course I meant that. You didn't suppose I meant anything else, did you?' Miss Dickinson smiled pleasantly. She was thirty-five years of age. Twenty of those years she had passed in a desolating routine; she had existed in the midst of life and never lived; she knew no finer joy than that which she at that moment experienced.
Again Anna offered no reply. The door opened, and every eye was centred on the stately Mrs. Clayton Vernon, who, with Mrs. Banks, the minister's wife, was in charge of the other half of the sewing party in the dining-room. Mrs. Clayton Vernon had heroic proportions, a nose which everyone admitted to be aristocratic, exquisite tact, and the calm consciousness of social superiority. In Bursley she was a great lady: her instincts were those of a great lady; and she would have been a great lady no matter to what sphere her God had called her. She had abundant white hair, and wore a flowered purple silk, in the antique taste.
'Beatrice, my dear,' she began, 'you have deserted us.'
'Have I, Mrs. Vernon?' the girl answered with involuntary deference. 'I was just coming in.'
'Well, I am sent as a deputation from the other room to ask you to sing something.'
'I'm very busy, Mrs. Vernon. I shall never get this mantel-cloth finished in time.'
'We shall all work better for a little music,' Mrs. Clayton Vernon urged. 'Your voice is a precious gift, and should be used for the benefit of all. We entreat, my dear girl.'
Beatrice arose from the footstool and dropped her embroidery.
'Thank you,' said Mrs. Clayton Vernon. 'If both doors are left open we shall hear nicely.'