Miss Cass in that slow, cool, oddly imperious voice of hers, which had the malign power of driving the other ladies to secret fury, was in the act of setting a sulky Master Peter and a disgruntled Miss Joan to write to dictation. The children made no secret of the fact that they had a hearty dislike of Miss Cass, and that lady, if austerity of mien and acidity of tongue were any indication, hardly cared to disguise that their feelings were fully reciprocated. But as the smiling Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson floated into the room, with quite a new air of kindly politeness, and informed Miss Cass that Lady Elfreda Catkin had called to see her and that she now awaited her in the drawing room the heavy thunderclouds were momentarily dispersed. All the same, as Miss Cass laid down her book and her pencil they suddenly returned with added density.
“Another friend of your mother’s, Miss Cass?” There was not a suspicion of sarcasm in that discreet inquiry. It was the honest child of a shameless curiosity.
“Ye-es.” The somewhat ambiguous reply of Miss Cass was extremely reluctant. And there was a look on her face that Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had no means of interpreting.
“Such a pretty girl.” Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson was a little inclined to gush. “And so very young to be such a clever actress.”
Miss Cass looked coldly down her arrogant nose. The little idiot must have taken leave of her wits!
The new governess did not seem to be anywise flattered by having such a very interesting young woman to call upon her. Thunderclouds gathered even more heavily about her as she rose from the table and made her way to the drawing room.
Consumed by an intense curiosity, Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson would dearly have liked to put her ear to the keyhole of the drawing room door. But the line has to be drawn somewhere, and with a sigh Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson remembered that she was “a lady.” Well it was that she had this scruple, for the conversation the other side of the door must have increased the flame that was devouring her.
“Why are you here?” was Elfreda’s greeting to her pale and embarrassed counterfeit.
The answer was tears.
“I—I don’t think I can keep on.” So complex is the human mind that even in that moment of genuine tragedy poor Girlie could not help noticing with what an air of authority the blue serge skirt she had contrived out of her meager capital and the cunning of her own needle and the woolen jumper she had knitted herself were now invested. The trim form of their present wearer showed them off to rare advantage.