“What’s the matter, Sim?” she asked. “Why are you being so cross with my hair?”
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” said Simpson darkly.
“Well, then, I don’t give it you. What’s the matter? Don’t you like coming back to Ashmore again? Or have I kept you up too late?”
Simpson’s severe touch melted into its usual softness.
“Eh, now, Miss Helen,” she said, “don’t talk such nonsense, my dear. As if I wasn’t pleased to sit up all night for you. But things have changed since you were here as a young lady: that’s what it is.”
“I suppose you haven’t got any nice young man to flirt with, Sim. There’s the butler: what’s the matter with him?”
“You and your jokes,” said Simpson, beaming.
“Well, there are worse things than jokes,” said she.
Simpson went on brushing in silence a little.
“I can’t think why you come to a house of Huns, Miss Helen,” she said at length. “That’s what they say about them down stairs. There’s the butler whom you joked about just now. And there’s the children’s nurse who’s been dismissed this very evening——”