Lydia did not like Miss Forster’s blatancy, but her old predilection for finding herself the heroine of her surroundings was stronger than ever, and it gratified her to know that they were all watching her and wondering what would happen to her next.
A less agreeable manifestation of interest was, however, in store for her.
Miss Nettleship sought her out apologetic but conscientious.
“You know how it is, dear, I know—but really I do feel responsible to your auntie, just a wee bit—and I feel I really must say something. They’re all talking about it, you know—not saying anything, I don’t mean of course, but you know—just talking, like.”
The distinction that Miss Nettleship wished to imply between the saying of anything and mere talking about it, was perfectly clear to the resentful and embarrassed Lydia.
True to her instincts, however, she showed none of the resentment and as little as she could of the embarrassment.
“There really isn’t anything for anyone to talk about. Mr. Margoliouth is very fond of the theatre, he says, and he hasn’t anyone to go with him. It’s very kind of him to take me, I think.”
“Once here and there,” said Miss Nettleship distractedly, “but really, dear, it’s getting more than that, and of course it’s a bit conspicuous because of his never hardly taking any notice of anyone else. At the Bridge now, when they play in the evenings, he’s downright uncivil to poor Mrs. Clarence, and I’ve heard him very rude to Miss Forster too, though of course she’s well able to hold her own. But it makes it all the more marked, his going on the way he does with you.”
“I can’t help his liking me,” said Lydia meekly, but inwardly rather gratified at Miss Nettleship’s artless exposition of the distinction that she enjoyed.
“Now don’t go thinking I’m blaming you for an instant, dear. I know very well that your auntie’s brought you up to be careful, and, besides, I can see for myself you’re steady—not one of those girls I call regular flirts. But it’s your being so young, and there’s something else too.”