CHAPTER I.
Si douce est la Marguerite.—CHAUCER.
“Miss Winter, are you busy? Do you want this afternoon? Can you take a good long walk?”
“Ethel, my dear, how often have I told you of your impetuosity—you have forgotten.”
“Very well”—with an impatient twist—“I beg your pardon. Good-morning, Miss Winter,” said a thin, lank, angular, sallow girl, just fifteen, trembling from head to foot with restrained eagerness, as she tried to curb her tone into the requisite civility.
“Good-morning, Ethel, good-morning, Flora,” said the prim, middle-aged daily governess, taking off her bonnet, and arranging the stiff little rolls of curl at the long, narrow looking-glass, the border of which distorted the countenance.
“Good-morning,” properly responded Flora, a pretty, fair girl, nearly two years older than her sister.
“Will you—” began to burst from Etheldred’s lips again, but was stifled by Miss Winter’s inquiry, “Is your mamma pretty well to-day?”
“Oh! very well,” said both at once; “she is coming to the reading.” And Flora added, “Papa is going to drive her out to-day.”