This evening, all the same, low diet and a sense of loneliness caused her resolution to weaken a bit. The thing was growing horribly dull. Banishment had clipped her wings. Isolation had taken a good deal of spice out of the entertainment. And, to add to a growing depression, she lacked resources within herself. She cared little for reading, and even had she had a taste for it, the books on the schoolroom shelf were not enticing. Nor was she expert with her needle. Nay, she was frankly bored by the use of it, which was a pity, since Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had been at pains to inform Miss Cass that governesses at The Laurels were expected to help with the children’s mending.
Elfreda was doing her best to meet these requirements, but up till now the result had been disaster. No, she had no claims to be considered a needlewoman, and as the schoolroom clock struck nine, with a sigh of irritation she resigned her needle to the work-basket of the real Miss Cass and sought other fields of conquest. At the bottom of Miss Cass’s trunk she had found a new novel in which the future Charlotte Brontë had rather recklessly invested quite a number of her shillings. Into this work Elfreda had already made several spasmodic dips, but by the time a quarter past nine had chimed from the chimneypiece she had at last reached the definite and final conclusion that she preferred “The Swiss Family Robinson.”
Alas, even that classic work, which divided the honors of the shelf in the angle next the extremely chilly fireplace with Mrs. Turner’s “Cautionary Tales” and “Eric, or Little by Little,” failed to excite Elfreda’s enthusiasm. She fixed a look of ferocious disgust on the work-basket, that equally unexciting alternative. What a life the Miss Casses of the world were condemned to live! She suppressed a shiver and controlled a yawn. As soon as the horrid hand of that horrid clock touched the half hour she would go to bed.
Man disposes! And no doubt the saying applies with equal truth to woman. For at twenty-seven minutes past nine there came a discreet knock on the schoolroom door.
“Come in,” said Miss Cass, coldly.
The invitation was accepted by General Norris, who came in rather furtively. He was at pains to close the door behind him softly and then he said with an odd hesitation which made Elfreda smile, “I say, Miss Cass, excuse me, but can you lend me a book?”
Elfreda promptly offered the new novel which had been ravished from the tin trunk.
“Thanks so much,” said the young man. As a proof of his gratitude, he seated himself on the schoolroom table. He produced a cigarette case tentatively. “I suppose there’ll be an awful row if I smoke here,” he said.
“Yes, there will be,” said Elfreda. And then she added slowly, with the sang froid that was so fascinating to this young man, “but what does it matter if there is?”
No, this was not an ordinary girl. George Norris couldn’t help being thrilled by her. “But, I say, it might be rather uncomfortable for you—mightn’t it?”