“She’s very contrary,” sighed Minnie, shaking her head.
Their forebodings proved to be well-founded. Rosamund did not wish to accept Lady Argent’s invitation.
“I’m not going to ask her why,” said Bertha exasperatedly, “I know too well that that’s exactly what she wants—tiresome child! No, Minnie, I’d rather you don’t discuss it with her. The whole thing is pose, ‘pour faire s’occuper d’elle,’ and the less notice one takes of her the sooner she may get over this silly phase of always wanting to differ from everybody else.”
“Couldn’t I point out to her that it might give you something of a rest if they were both away for a little while?” asked Minnie mournfully.
“I’d really rather you didn’t, dear old Minnie. I know how nicely you’d put it,” said Bertha untruthfully, “but I don’t want to give her any excuses for trumping up a grievance—thinking one wanted to get rid of her, or anything of that sort. Oh no, my dear—I shall jog along all right. There’s plenty of life in the old dog yet!”
“There’s no rest for the wicked,” groaned Miss Blandflower, with no uncomplimentary intent.
“Not this side of the grave,” agreed Bertha cheerfully. “But—well, I will own to you, Minnie, that I sometimes wish those two were rather more like other people. It seems so extraordinary that they can’t lead the normal lives of ordinary girls—but one of them must take a week’s silly flirtation as though it were a tragedy, and the other gives me no rest because she wants ‘the intellectual discipline of the Catholic Church’!”
She laughed as she spoke, but Minnie exclaimed almost tearfully:
“Dear Mrs. Tregaskis, it does seem hard, when you’ve been so unutterably good to them. If only they’d been your own daughters they would have turned out very differently, I feel sure.”
This rather infelicitous example drove Mrs. Tregaskis silently from the room.