CHAPTER XVIII
THE LITTLE HINGE
The day before the dance was to be given Toinette wrote her second letter, arguing that when everybody else had so much to occupy their thoughts they would have little time to notice other people’s doings, and the letter could be mailed without exciting comment. Waiting until the very last moment, she ran down to the mail-basket to slip the letter in it unobserved. As ill-luck would have it, Miss Preston also had a letter to be slipped in at the last moment, and she and Toinette came face to face. It was too late to retreat, for the letter was in her hand in plain view, so, forced into an awkward position, she made a bad matter worse. Dropping the letter quickly into the basket, she said:
“Just a note for papa about something I want for the dance to-morrow, Miss Preston; I didn’t think you’d care, and I hadn’t time to do it earlier,” and, with flaming cheeks, she turned to go away.
“Wait just one moment, dear,” said Miss Preston, “I’ve something to say to you. Walk down to my room with me, please,” and she slipped her arm about the girl’s waist.
No more was needed, and all the suspicion and rebellion in Toinette’s nature rose up to do battle with—windmills. It was a hard young face that looked defiantly at Miss Preston.
“Toinette, dear, I want to have a little talk with you,” she said, as she locked the door of her sitting-room, and, seating herself upon the divan, drew Toinette down beside her.
Toinette never changed her expression, but looked straight before her with a most uncompromising stare.
“You said just now that you did not think I would care if you sent a note to your father; why should I, sweetheart?”
It must have been a stubborn heart, indeed, which could resist Miss Preston’s sweet tone.