VII
THE picnic up on the moor, regarded as an al fresco entertainment, was not a success.
Rosamund’s brow grew dark from the instant when she demanded, rather than inquired, of her guardian: “Where is Francie?” and received the placid reply that Cousin Bertie had thought Frances would be more comfy tucked up on her bed.
“And you are not going near her till to-night, my dear little girl,” she added, with a touch of genial severity. “She’ll do much better without you.”
Bertie exchanged a laughing glance of amusement at her own hard-heartedness with Miss Blandflower, and Morris saw Rosamund flush the angry scarlet of a sensitive child that thinks itself unjustly treated.
She sulked frankly for the rest of the time, and only the prettiness of the defiant mouth and chin which was all that Morris could see under her big shady hat prevented him from feeling provoked with her.
He and Hazel kept up a cheerfully desultory conversation, while Miss Blandflower pressed unwanted attentions upon her hostess and fellow-guests.
“Mayn’t I pass you a rock-cake, Mrs. Tregaskis?” she pleaded. “Some bread-and-butter then? You’re not eating anything!”
“I be doin’ nicely, thank’ee, ma dear. What’ll yū be takin’? Crame?”
“No—no, thank you—not for me. Nothing more at all,” distractedly said Minnie, who had been nibbling at a small piece of bread-and-butter in the intervals of her activities.