“Yes; you would have to learn typewriting, and it would be dry work. But, on the other hand, you would have a good deal of time to yourself. You would be to a very large extent your own mistress.”
I scarcely knew how to answer her, yet on the whole the idea was an attractive one to me. She saw me hesitate, but she saw also that it was by no means in displeasure. Before I could find anything to say she spoke again.
“At any rate, think of it,” she suggested. “Don’t decide all at once. You would live with me, of course, and I could give you sixty pounds a year. It does not seem much, but you would scarcely get more than that to start with at anything. Listen! Isn’t that Mr. Deville?”
I sprang up and moved towards the door.
“I thought you told me that you were not expecting him to-day!” I exclaimed.
She looked at me in surprise.
“I was not expecting him—in fact, he told me that he was going to Mellborough. But does it matter? Don’t you want to see him?”
“No!” I cried, breathlessly; “he is coming across the lawn. I am going out the other way. Goodbye.”
“Why, what has poor Bruce done to offend you?” she cried, in some concern. “I thought you were getting such friends.”