"Oh, well, that's born in me. I couldn't very well forget that. My mother—" Dinah hesitated momentarily—"my mother was a dancer before she married."
"And she taught you?" asked Sir Eustace.
"No, no! She never taught me anything except useful things—like cooking and sewing and house-work. And I detest them all," said Dinah frankly. "I like sweeping the garden and digging the potatoes far better."
"She keeps you busy then," commented Sir Eustace, with semi-humorous interest.
"Busy isn't the word for it," declared Dinah. "I'm going from morning till night. We do the washing at home too. I get up at five and go to bed at nine. I make nearly all my own clothes too. That's why I haven't got any," she ended naively.
He laughed. "Not really! But what makes you work so hard as that? You're wasting all your best time. You'll never be so young again, you know."
"I know!" cried Dinah, and suddenly a wild gust of rebellion went through her. "It's hateful! I never knew how hateful till I came here. Going back will be—too horrible for words. But—" her voice fell abruptly flat—"what am I to do?"
"I should go on strike," he said lightly. "Tell your good mother that she must find someone else to do the work! You are going to take it easy and enjoy yourself."
Dinah uttered a short, painful laugh.
"Wouldn't that do?" he asked.