'I shall never marry,' she sobbed. 'No one ever comes here but that heavy, stupid Morty. I shall be like Miss Browne in a few more years. I'm getting untidy now—no one can be tidy in clothes like these; I never care how I do my hair—what is the use, when there is no one to see it? I've not been to a party or a proper picnic, like the girls in the book, in all my life. I shouldn't know what to do, if I did go to one. No; I shall grow just like Miss Browne, and it is all Challis's fault.'
A portrait of the sweet-faced girl-player hung on the wall. Hermie tore it down from its place and broke it into fragments.
'I'm just tired to death of seeing you smile!' she muttered.
Miss Browne came in—Miss Browne, with perspiration on her face and a strand or two of her colourless hair loose. She carried an armful of Hermie's clothes from the wash. 'They are a very bad colour,' she said, 'but we cannot blame Lizzie, when there was next to no water. My dear, what is the matter?'
Hermie did not even wipe the tears from her face; she was sitting still, her hands on her knees, and letting the salt drops trickle drearily down her cheeks.
Miss Browne took a step towards her, then paused timidly. There had never been much intimacy or confidence between them. Hermie, with her innate love of daintiness and beauty and the hardness of youth, despised while she pitied the poor woman.
'Is it—anything I can help—your father—Floss—you are anxious—worried?'
'Oh no,' said Hermie, 'I wasn't thinking of any one but myself.' She leaned her head back, and had a sense of pleasure in her rolling tears. 'I suppose I'm not much more miserable than usual; but then I expect you are miserable—every one is, I think.'
'But not in the middle of the day, love,' the lady-help said.
'Why not?'