“Oh, but of course I believe you, Missy, and not—and not the person who told me different.”
“Now I wonder who that was?” said Missy to herself; but aloud—“That's a blessing! And now if you'll let me go to bed, my dear, we'll neither of us think any more of all this tommy-rot that we've been talking.”
Nevertheless she herself thought about it half that night. And a variety of vague suspicions crystallised at last into a single definite conclusion.
“She has a man on,” muttered Missy to her pillow. “That's what's the matter with Arabella.”
Her mind was fully made up before she slept.
“I must find out something about it; what I do see I don't like; and I've just got to take care of Arabella.”
Forthwith she set herself to watch. It was first of all necessary to become really intimate with Arabella. The latter's addiction to personal catechism, to name one thing, had kept Missy not a little aloof hitherto. Now, however, in the nick of time, this weakness passed away, and with it this barrier. There were no more questions asked obviously for the sake of doubting or discrediting the answer. On the other hand, about some things Arabella was as inquisitive as ever; especially to wit, Missy's love affairs. Curiously enough, this was the one point on which Missy was markedly reticent, for very good reasons of her own; but she had no objection to discussing with Arabella the general subject of love. She noted the fascination this had for her companion. When the latter came to speak of her male ideal, from the point of view of his appearance, Missy noted much more. “He has a black moustache and very dark eyes,” said she to herself. “That's the kind I trust least of all!” She knew something about it, evidently.
A tiny incident, however, which happened when Missy had been some five or six weeks at the farm, told her more than Arabella had done, directly or indirectly, in any of their conversations. The girls were in the room with Mr. Teesdale, who was looking on the chimney-piece for a lost letter, when he exclaimed suddenly:
“What's got that meerschaum pipe, Arabella?”
“Which one was that, father?” was the only answer, in a suspiciously innocent voice.