“Her mother is my oldest friend, and would be greatly distressed to think that her daughter should be alone in a foreign town at such a season.”
“I do not mind the distress of the mother.”
“Oh, dear me,” I exclaimed impatiently, “I shall have to ask her to come!”
“If you should be inclined,” the letter went on, “to play the good Samaritan, dear Elizabeth, I am positive you would find Minora a bright, intelligent companion—”
“Minora?” questioned the Man of Wrath.
The April baby, who has had a nursery governess of an altogether alarmingly zealous type attached to her person for the last six weeks, looked up from her bread and milk.
“It sounds like islands,” she remarked pensively.
The governess coughed.
“Majora, Minora, Alderney, and Sark,” explained her pupil.
I looked at her severely.