“That is because I have to live with her, I suppose, and because she does make such a fuss about being clean and tidy. I like dust, plenty of it—nice, thick, black, London dust!” she now and then said, pugnaciously, to herself.
Mrs. Pennington had never trained her girls to be accustomed to the luxury of a maid. She was old-fashioned in her educational theories, and considered a certain amount of housework absolutely necessary for the welfare of her daughters. Hence every morning, Polly and Winifred had to make their own beds, and dust their room, and every Monday they were expected to turn it out thoroughly, and make it as clean as a new pin.
Downstairs in the drawing room Christina had to dust all the china, and to keep the many valuable ornaments in good order, and once a week each girl was sent down for an hour’s study with cook.
The mother, like an industrious bee, hovered over all the arrangements of her house, and her hand was always ready to make a rough corner smooth.
On this particular morning even her clever, deft hands found the rough corner a little too rough to be manipulated.
The usual scenes in the study, the usual fights over the household books had ended, but the trouble was not finished with them. Christina, when she went to seek her mother at the customary hour, found her sitting very still in her chair, her pale, worn, interesting face supported by her hand, which overshadowed her eyes, but could not hide from her daughter the fact that she had been crying.
“Mother, why would you not let me do the books for you? You worry yourself far too much.” Chrissie’s voice was very like Winifred’s—even, musical, rather cold, and there was a strong resemblance between them.
The elder girl was, however, far more attractive; in fact, when Polly declared her eldest sister to be beautiful, she was not far wrong, for beautiful Christina Pennington was, in a delicate, classical way. Her features were almost perfect, her eyes of a wonderful shade of dark-blue, she had the rarest skin, and her figure, though very slight, was well proportioned.
Mrs. Pennington roused herself hurriedly as her daughter spoke.
“I am all right now, Chrissie, dear. I made myself very angry with cook; but she is really too impertinent. I—I am afraid she will have to go.” Mrs. Pennington said this half nervously.