“Well,” said Maggie, “I don’t see how he can do aught but take it all right... Depends how you put it, of course.”
“Oh, you leave that to me!” said Edwin, with eager confidence. “I shall put it all right. You trust me for that!”
Five.
Clara danced into the room, flowing over with infantile joy. She had been listening to part of the conversation behind the door.
“So he wants to be an architect! Arch-i-tect! Arch-i-tect!” She half-sang the word in a frenzy of ridicule. She really did dance, and waved her arms. Her eyes glittered, as if in rapture. These singular manifestations of her temperament were caused solely by the strangeness of the idea of Edwin wanting to be an architect. The strange sight of him with his hair cut short or in a new neck-tie affected her in a similar manner.
“Clara, go and put your pinafore on this instant!” said Maggie. “You know you oughtn’t to leave it off.”
“You needn’t be so hoity-toity, miss,” Clara retorted. But she moved to obey. When she reached the door she turned again and gleefully taunted Edwin. “And it’s all because he went for a walk yesterday with Mr Orgreave! I know! I know! You needn’t think I didn’t see you, because I did! Arch-i-tect! Arch-i-tect!”
She vanished, on all her springs, spitefully graceful.
“You might almost think that infernal kid was right bang off her head,” Edwin muttered crossly. (Still, it was extraordinary how that infernal kid hit on the truth.)