"We're all like that this morning, Miss Summers," she said, almost with defiance. "It's the weather. That's what it is."
The other girls all turned from Nancy and transferred to Sally their mounting malevolence. They would have liked to see her swept from her place. They could have scratched and bitten her with fury. And yet, a moment or two after she had spoken, there was a perceptible relief. Nancy stole out of the room, to finish her cry and bathe her face, and one of the girls—her friend—went after her. There was a pause in work. A window was opened, and some air lightened the oppression. Sally remained seated, while the others crowded to the window, and slowly recovered her own composure. And then, in five minutes, when everybody resumed, it was found that things were not so bad after all, and Nancy's work was rectified, and Rose Anstey blew her nose and looked disagreeable, and some of them talked; so that presently all became more animated, and the sky lightened, and the day was less trying. Only Sally's head continued to ache, and her spirits to falter. But she no longer sighed for Toby. A curious dread of him came into her consciousness, which she could not understand. She was afraid. She felt defensive towards him, and explanatory. Under her attention all sorts of impulses were at work. Pictures of Toby in different circumstances began to flash into her mind, always blurring in an instant; while the memory of her dinner with Gaga grew stronger and more remarkable. Not knowing what she was doing, Sally pushed her work away, and sat in a brown study, until she became aware that she was under observation.
Sally met these cruel stares with immediately assumed equanimity, and she once more drew the work towards her; and in a few moments the girls forgot Sally, and chattered a little together. And by the time their attention was withdrawn wholly it was the luncheon interval which meant more to all of them than usual, since it once more gave the girls an opportunity for standing up and moving about. They grouped, and went slowly towards the room where they always ate; and Sally was able to open the other door for an instant, only to discover that Madam's room was empty. With a sinking heart she followed the others, again beset by a loss of confidence.
In the afternoon she was sent out by Miss Summers to match some silk, and this gave Sally relief without which she must have ended the day feeling ill. As it was she came back just as they were making tea, and her own cup of tea sent the headache away. For the first time that day, Sally heard herself laughing. She was telling Muriel of a fight between two dogs, and how a man had been overthrown in the mud through trying to part the dogs; and when Muriel laughed Sally laughed also, which made the other girls prick up their ears and grow more lively. There was a great change in the general atmosphere after tea. The constraint disappeared, and everybody became more normal. Needles were more adroitly used; the light improved; a general air of contentment arose. Sally no longer thought of Toby, or of Gaga. She was making a dream for herself, out of a motor car she had seen, and a handsome soldier, and the way a commissionaire had stepped out of her way. She needed few materials for her dream, and was a fine lady for the rest of the afternoon.
Dreaming, however, has its penalties; and for this occasion Sally was punished by having to stay rather late in order to finish what she was doing. The other girls began to go home; but Sally and Miss Summers remained at their tasks. The delay produced a strange experience for Sally, because when they were alone together Miss Summers began abruptly to talk. She hummed a little at first, and then broke into a long speech which had been seething all day in her mind.
"I hope you don't think I was nasty to Nancy this morning, Sally. She's a funny girl. She's in love, you know; and thinks of nothing but this man. And he's a married man, too, and not a good man, Sally. He'd think nothing of leading a girl like Nancy into doing wrong, and leaving her to get on as well as she can. Well, that's not right, Sally." Miss Summers felt for her handkerchief, and Sally noticed with astonishment that there were tears in her eyes. "You see, when a man's married he ought to be careful what he does. Now once, when I was a girl, I'd got my head full of the sort of things that young girls have—not you, Sally; you're too sensible;—and I met a man, and thought he was the ... well, I thought he was the finest man in the world. He wasn't. He'd got a poor wretched wife that he neglected, and he drank, and when he ran away they found he'd been betting with money that didn't belong to him. And he very nearly took me with him. Fortunately, I didn't go. I was afraid to go—though I didn't know about his wife. He said he'd marry me when we got away. Well, I thought it was funny. I said, 'Why not before?' and he said, 'You don't understand. What if we didn't suit each other?' I said, 'Why shouldn't we? Other people get married.' And all that sort of thing I said. Well, I wanted to go, and wanted to go; and at last I didn't, and I was thankful afterwards. Now Nancy's man is a shopwalker somewhere. He's got no money, but he's good-looking, you know, and girls think a lot of that when they're young; and also he's one of those men who give a girl the idea that he can have twenty others if he wants them. That's what upsets a girl. She thinks she's got to make her mind up in a hurry, or lose him, d'you see?"
"More fool she," remarked Sally. "Pooh!"
"So I say. Mind, in Nancy's case, she's just in love. He may not want her. She doesn't know. And it's the uncertainty that keeps her like this. Far better if she married some steady young fellow who'd make her a good husband. But girls don't think of that. They don't like steady fellows, any more than young fellows like steady girls."
"That's true," said Sally, thoughtfully. "They want a bit of ginger."
"Well, sometimes I think nobody ought to marry until they're well on in life."