“Oh, my dear, and do you know how they’re all a-talking about you?” cried Mrs Barclay, as she sat panting beneath the florid portrait of May Burnett in the MC’s shabby drawing-room.
Claire looked up appealingly in the pleasant, plump face, and her brow knit.
“You see, it all comes to me, my dear, and it worries me because I like you so.”
“You were always very kind to me, Mrs Barclay.”
“Not half so kind as I should like to be, my dear. I wanted to have you home when the mur—”
“Oh, hush!”
“Of course, my dear. That’s my way. So vulgar and thoughtless. Think of me now bringing that up to you who live here; and us sitting in the very next room.”
“Mrs Barclay!”
“Yes, I won’t say another word, my dear. Not that I believe in sperrits or anything of that kind. But you were saying about me being kind. Why, you won’t let me be, my dear. I’m sure the dresses I’d buy you, and the things I’d give you, if you’d let me, would make some of them stare.”
“But I could not let you, Mrs Barclay,” said Claire, smiling.