“No,” George Norris spoke with a slight air of boredom. “But the Society Pictorial says she’s very clever. Her portrait and all about her is in this week.”
“I must look at the Society Pictorial,” said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. “Have you the time, George?”
“Quarter to one,” said George after consulting the watch on his wrist.
“Miss Cass,” fluted Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. “Will you walk on with the children. Please wash their hands and brush their hair.”
For one very brief fraction of time it looked almost as if the new governess would have preferred to delegate this simple and elementary duty to Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson herself. That lady was too much occupied with General Norris to observe the fact, but the young woman in spectacles who noticed everything, noticed it all right.
“Come on, Petah,” she said. “Come and let Miss Cass wash your hands and brush your hair.”
Master Peter, whose age was five, gave himself a shake and a wriggle. “Don’t warn-too,” he said.
“Petah-darling!” fluted Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson to her son and heir.
Miss Cass made no comment, but she took Miss Joan quietly but firmly in one hand and Master Peter with equal quietude and firmness in the other. Without preface or apology she proceeded to lead them in the direction of the house. It was not quite the mode of procedure of former governesses—her charges had had four within the last twelve months—but the grip of Miss Cass was so resolute that Master Peter was able to shake and wriggle with rather less effect than usual.
“Tell me, George,” said Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, suddenly becoming confidential as the small procession of three passed from view, “what do you think of the new governess?”