Miss Royle rustled her way to the pier-glass to have a last look at her bonnet. It was a poke, with a quilted ribbon circling its brim, and some lace arranged fluffily. It did not reach many inches above the spot where Gwendolyn had drawn the ink-line, for Miss Royle was small. When she had given the poke a pat here and a touch there, she leaned forward to get a better view of her face. She had a pale, thin face and thin faded hair. On either side of a high bony nose were set her pale-blue eyes. Shutting them in, and perched on the thinnest part of her nose, were silver-circled spectacles.
"I'm very glad I can give you a half-holiday, dear," she went on. But her tone was somewhat sorrowful. She detached a small leaf of paper from a tiny book in her hand-bag and rubbed it across her forehead. "For my neuralgia is much worse to-day." She coughed once or twice behind a lisle-gloved hand, snapped the clasp of her hand-bag and started toward the hall door.
It was now that for the first time she looked at Gwendolyn—and caught sight of the bowed head, the grief-flushed cheeks, the suspended handkerchief. She stopped short.
"Gwendolyn!" she exclaimed, annoyed. "I hope you're not going to be cross and troublesome, and make it impossible for me to have a couple of hours to myself this afternoon—especially when I'm suffering." Then, coaxingly, "You can amuse yourself with one of your nice pretend-games, dear."
From under long up-curling lashes Gwendolyn regarded her in silence.
"I've planned to lunch out," went on Miss Royle. "But you won't mind, will you, dear Gwendolyn?" plaintively. "For I'll be back at tea-time. And besides"—growing brighter—"you're to have—what do you think!—the birthday cake Cook has made."
"I hate cake!" burst out Gwendolyn; and covered her eyes once more.
"Gwen-do-lyn!" breathed Miss Royle.
Gwendolyn sat very still.
"How can you be so naughty! Oh, it's really wicked and ungrateful of you to be fretting and complaining—you who have so many blessings! But you don't appreciate them because you've always had them. Well,"—mournfully solicitous—"I trust they'll never be taken from you, my child. Ah, I know how bitter such a loss is! I haven't always been in my present circumstances, compelled to go out among strangers to earn a scant living. Once—"