“Yes, I see,” she assented, “you are sending for patterns; but surely you are not continually writing to shops?”
“Why not? You know best, why I have no English correspondence. The July sales are on, and one gets things for half of nothing, trimmings, stockings, gloves, scarves. Tomlin gave me the tip.”
“Oh, did she?” murmured Letty, not a little daunted by Cara’s manner; then she resumed with an effort, “Cara, my dear, why will you not be more open with me, and confide in me, and tell me things? No one in the world, takes as much interest in you, or is as anxious for your happiness, as I am.”
The girl glanced slyly at the pretty, incredibly young-looking woman who was her mother; with her clear complexion, abundant hair, and slim figure, she might almost be a contemporary of her own!
“What sort of things?”
“Just the sort of things you tell your girl friends.” Cara broke out into an irrepressible shout of laughter,—laughter, in which there sounded a note of mockery or derision,—and Letty, with a heightened colour, added:
“Frau Hurter has informed me, that you no longer go to the Baers—is this the case?”
“Yes, I’ve had a terrific row with Berthe and her mother—horrible, bourgeois brutes!”
“But you used to be so fond of Berthe—you’ve known one another nearly all your lives.”
“I never knew her, or found her out, until lately. I’ll tell you all about it another time. Here is the Paradis. I’m not going in. Give my hate to Mrs. Hesketh. Oh, well, darling Mum, don’t look so shocked,” patting her lightly on the arm; “you know, I never mean the quarter of what I say, and you also know, that she can’t endure the sight of me!” Then Miss Glyn embraced her mother, and turned quickly about to walk to Mitzau, and post her letter.