“And I suppose you have your things made up without pockets,” suggested Vestalia, amiably.
Adele put some added resolution into her glance. “I wrote asking you to call,” she said coldly, “because it became a nuisance not to know what you were up to.”
“Ah,” replied Vestalia, “it looks as if your father must have destroyed some of our correspondence. How thoughtless of him!”
Miss Skinner paused, and knitted her queenly brows a trifle. She did not seem to be getting on. “I have no wish to waste time in trying to be funny,” she avowed, after some hesitation. “Now that you are here, have you any objection to telling me why you swore my father to keep a secret from me?”
“Oh, just a whim of mine, nothing more,” Vestalia assured her, lightly. “I frequently have notions like that, that I can’t in the least account for.”
“No, you had a reason,” insisted the other, with gravity. “And you must tell me what it was. I have been frank with you.”
“And I will not be behind you in candour,” said Vestalia, as if won by an appeal to her better self. “It was because you looked at me in the Museum as if you thought my hair was dyed.”
“Well, so it is, isn’t it?” demanded Adele, bluntly.
“Upon my honour, no!” the other replied. “And now you look at me as if you thought that that wasn’t much to swear by. It’s possible that you do not realise it, but your eyes leave something to be desired in the matter of politeness.”
“I’m afraid that’s true,” Adele assented. “I have an effect of looking very hard at things, simply because I’m near-sighted. I ought to wear glasses, but they do not suit me.”