An exasperating smile lifted Thomas's lip. "Oh, are you!" he observed.
The hat settled, she met his look squarely. (Did he suspicion anything?) "Yes. And you take the dogs out to walk. So"—she started to pass him—"I'm going to walk."
His hair was black and straight. Now it seemed fairly to bristle with amazement. "I couldn't take you if you was grown-up," he asserted firmly, blocking her advance; "—leastways not without Miss Royle or Jane'd say Yes. It'd be worth my job."
Gwendolyn lowered her eyes, stood a moment in indecision, then pulled off the hat, tossed it aside, went back to the window, and sat down.
At one end of the seat, swung high on its gilded spring, danced the dome-topped cage of her canary. Presently she raised her face to him. He was traveling tirelessly from perch to cage-floor, from floor to trapeze again. His wings were half lifted from his little body—the bright yellow of her own hair. It was as if he were ready for flight. His round black eyes were constantly turned toward the world beyond the window. He perked his head inquiringly, and cheeped. Now and then, with a wild beating of his pinions, he sprang sidewise to the shining bars of the cage, and hung there, panting.
She watched him for a time; made a slow survey of the nursery next,—and sighed.
"Poor thing!" she murmured.
She heard the rustle of silk skirts from the direction of the school-room. Hastily she shook out the embroidered handkerchief and put it against her eyes.
A door opened. "There will be no lessons this afternoon, Gwendolyn." It was Miss Royle's voice.
Gwendolyn did not speak. But she lowered the handkerchief a trifle—and noted that the governess was dressed for going out—in a glistening black silk plentifully ornamented with jet paillettes.