Mrs. Leach held her breath.
“But I should never dream of doing that as long as Madeline is with me.”
“So here was the matter in a nutshell,” said his listener to herself, as she grasped her fan fiercely and closed her lips. Unless Madeline went off, he would never marry. The great thing, of course, was to get the girl settled. She passed her obvious admirers in lightning review. There was actually not one whom she could lay her finger upon as a possible son-in-law for the little gentleman beside her. She knew several who would have gladly proposed to Madeline, but Madeline never gave them a chance. Why? She would make it her business to discover the reason why Miss Madeline was so cold and difficile, and to find out who he was? Mr. Jessop knew. Oh, if she only had a chance of exercising her fascination on that sour-looking barrister! Madeline had had a note from him recently, and she had been on the point of perusing it when she had been disturbed: she frequently mistook Madeline’s letters for her own, and had glanced over a good deal of her correspondence. It had proved extremely commonplace, but she felt confident that Mr. Jessop’s letter would be of absorbing interest.
Madeline was on the alert. She had taken a sincere dislike to this tall, dashing body-guard of hers, with her splendid toilettes, shocking meannesses, her soft manners, and her sharp claws. She was aware that she tampered with her letters. She had surprised her (but not discovered herself); and seen her carry a piece of recently-used blotting-paper and hold it up before the sitting-room mirror; and she was aware, from Josephine, that Mrs. Leach had made an exhaustive search in her room, under pretence of seeking a fur collarette. Oh! she was a clumsy spy.
In March, when the English season was as its height, and every hotel and villa was packed, an elderly Englishwoman, wearing blue spectacles, and a small sandy-haired girl, wearing a tailor-made and sailor hat—that seal of British livery—toiled up the staircase of the Grand Hotel, followed by their luggage. At the first landing the young lady stopped and stared at a very smart apparition which had just come out of a sitting-room—a pretty, tall girl, dressed with much elegance in a plum-coloured cloth coat and skirt, a white cloth waistcoat, white felt hat with purple velvet, white gloves, white sunshade. Could it be possible that she was Madeline West? Madeline, the pupil-teacher at Mrs. Harper’s? She raised her eyes: yes, it was Madeline. She would speak.
“Madeline—West, I am sure. Don’t you remember me at school—Nina Berwick?”
“Oh yes, of course,” shaking hands.
“Growing up makes a difference, doesn’t it?” (Growing rich makes a difference too.)
“You are staying here?” said Miss Berwick effusively.