Orchardina Society, eagerly observing “young Mrs. Weatherstone” from her first appearance, had always classified her as “delicate.” Beside the firm features and high color of the matron-in-office, this pale quiet slender woman looked like a meek and transient visitor. But her white forehead was broad under its soft-hanging eaves of hair, and her chin, though lacking in prognathous prominence or bull-dog breadth, had a certain depth which gave hope to the physiognomist.
She was strangely roused and stirred by the afternoon's events. “I'm like that man in 'Phantastes',” she thought contemptuously, “who stayed so long in that dungeon because it didn't occur to him to open the door! Why don't I—?” she rose and walked slowly up and down, her hands behind her. “I will!” she said at last.
Then she dressed for dinner, revolving in her mind certain suspicions long suppressed, but now flaming out in clear conviction in the light of Diantha's words. “Sleeping in, indeed!” she murmured to herself. “And nobody doing anything!”
She looked herself in the eye in the long mirror. Her gown was an impressive one, her hair coiled high, a gold band ringed it like a crown. A clear red lit her checks.
She rang. Little Ilda, the newest maid, appeared, gazing at her in shy admiration. Mrs. Weatherstone looked at her with new eyes. “Have you been here long?” she asked. “What is your name?”
“No, ma'am,” said the child—she was scarce more. “Only a week and two days. My name is Ilda.”
“Who engaged you?”
“Mrs. Halsey, ma'am.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Weatherstone, musing to herself, “and I engaged Mrs. Halsey!” “Do you like it here?” she continued kindly.
“Oh yes, ma'am!” said Ilda. “That is—” she stopped, blushed, and continued bravely. “I like to work for you, ma'am.”