“The Retreat was over two or three days ago, was it? I see.”
Frances flushed at her guardian’s tone.
“Oh, Cousin Bertie, if Rosamund hadn’t said that you were coming here I meant to have written you a long letter, and told you why I was staying on, and everything.”
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Tregaskis, still dryly. “I hope you did. I feel sure you did. Now show me where my room is, will you?”
Frances, the look of pleasure on her face altogether dashed, preceded Mrs. Tregaskis to the room next to her own.
Mrs. Tregaskis, as usual, was appreciative and observant, was charmed at having a window that looked out on to the garden, and thanked Frances delightedly for the little vase of flowers arranged upon the tiny dressing-table. Frances reflected remorsefully that Cousin Bertie never failed in recognition of any effort, however small, to give her pleasure. Joined to the thought, however, was the subconscious conviction that neither did Cousin Bertie ever fail to mark and remember any infringement, however trivial, of the wide, easy, and yet inflexible discipline which she was apt to wield over all her surroundings.
It was perhaps this unacknowledged certainty which drove Frances, as soon as breakfast was over on the following morning, to withdraw herself and her guardian, with unwonted decision, from the voluble overtures of Mrs. Mulholland, to the comparative privacy of the small garden. It was only nine o’clock, and they both shivered a little in the raw morning air.
“Tut! This won’t do,” exclaimed Bertha. “Come along, Francie—in step, now.”
She began to chant with a sort of martial ardour, keeping time as she stepped out gallantly:
“I had a good place and I left—left—left; I’m out of work now and it serves me jolly well right—right—right! Soon be warm at this rate! Don’t shiver like that, Francie. Why, bless me! it’s good to be alive on a day like this.”