With the words “I am ready,” spoken from the doorway, Mr. Stone interrupted further colloquy....
But though the girl's position in the household had, to all seeming, become established, now and then some little incident—straws blowing down the wind—showed feelings at work beneath the family's apparent friendliness, beneath that tentative and almost apologetic manner towards the poor or helpless, which marks out those who own what Hilary had called the “social conscience.” Only three days, indeed, before he sat in his brown study, meditating beneath the bust of Socrates, Cecilia, coming to lunch, had let fall this remark:
“Of course, I know nobody can read his handwriting; but I can't think why father doesn't dictate to a typist, instead of to that little girl. She could go twice the pace!”
Blanca's answer, deferred for a few seconds, was:
“Hilary perhaps knows.”
“Do you dislike her coming here?” asked Hilary.
“Not particularly. Why?”
“I thought from your tone you did.”
“I don't dislike her coming here for that purpose.”
“Does she come for any other?”