He was a gallant, the Colonel, full of little courtesies which endeared him to the hearts of women. That was why the Widow Chisholme married him, the County said. She wanted—but does it matter after all these years what the County said?
He sat down now beside her and waited for her to begin. She usually did begin and end everything.
“The girls refuse to come—I’ve just had a letter from Julie; she is the most independent, ungrateful young minx I ever heard of!”
“Oh—ah—not that, Nancy, not that, I am sure—ahem—you must be mistaken. She impressed me as a very gentle, sweet young creature.”
“Gentle fiddlesticks! Do you call that gentle?” flaunting the letter in his face.
“Possibly, my dear, if I were to know the contents of the letter I might be better able to form an opinion.”
She handed it over and watched him read it.
“Ah,” he commented at the end, “what remarkably original girls!”
“Give that letter to me, Driscoe,” (she had always called him Driscoe from the beginning) “I don’t believe you half understand it—you are always way off in the clouds somewhere when you haven’t got your nose buried in a book. Those girls are going to work—to cook! They actually prefer to cook for a living when they might come down here and live like ladies the rest of their lives. They have moved into rooms their Doctor found for them—I expect it is one of those nasty little places they call flats, in some horrid neighborhood and I am sure no one will go near them and they’ll die of loneliness with their crazy notions.” “Cook!” she repeated scornfully, “who ever heard of a lady doing a servant’s work!” The little pink bow on the top of her head fairly quivered in outraged sympathy.
“I am sure the girls appreciate your offer to give them a home,” Colonel Driscoe said when he was allowed to speak, “Julie’s letter speaks very feelingly about it. If they think it wise to try and be independent I must say I can’t help but admire their spirit.”