“Ah well, it’s a wise child that——”
“Give me a bun, Minnie,” said Bertha in loud, commanding tones. “I be starvin’ for my tay. Why, Francie and I haven’t had a blow-out like this for I don’t know how long. Tea at the convent consisted of stewed twigs and a Marie biscuit, eh, Frances? that is to say, when we got any all.”
“There wasn’t very much,” Frances admitted reluctantly, and without smiling.
“There was not indeed! And that Mrs. Mulholland has the appetite of a cormorant, positively.”
Few feminine indictments can be much more virulent than the charge of “having an appetite,” and there was a distinct quality of venom in Mrs. Tregaskis’ tone.
“Is that the one Mrs. Severing talked about?” asked Rosamund.
“Yes, as though she were her dearest friend. Poor Nina’s gush is sometimes apt to be misleading,” laughed Bertha tolerantly. “Has she been over here, Rosamund?”
“She came yesterday, to see if you were back.”
“Any news?”
“There’s to be a concert at Polwerrow on the twentieth, and she wants to take us all. She’ll call for us in the car and bring us back.”