“I am willing to abide by Irma’s decision.” It cost Lucy severe effort to make this reply. “As you are to take Jerry’s place, suppose we start at once to amuse the children. By the way, where are they?”
“Out in the back yard. I sent them there and told that stupid maid to look after them. They made too much noise. I couldn’t stand it.”
“It’s too cold for them to be out.” With a swift, reproachful glance toward indolent Mignon, Lucy hurried to the back yard to attend to her charges. Five minutes later she had hustled them into the playroom, a shivering little band, and started a romping, childish game, calculated to undo any bad effects which might otherwise result from Mignon’s neglect.
Realizing that she could expect no help from the French girl, Lucy ignored her and entered energetically into her work. A lover of children, it was a pleasure to make them happy. One baby game followed another until the twilight shadows began to thicken. Finally marshaling them to their chairs at the table, she took her place among them and told them fairy tales in a simple, lively fashion that quite enthralled them.
Through it all, Mignon made no move to assist her. She simply sat still, a smile of mocking amusement on her thin lips. Lucy Warner had found her own level, was her uncharitable thought. As a mere nobody, she was quite at home with these grubby, slum waifs. Undoubtedly Lucy was furious with her for not helping entertain these beggars. Nevertheless, she was quite sure that angry or not Lucy would listen to what she intended, presently, to say. Six o’clock would mark the end of the detestable session. Then—Mignon’s smile grew more malevolent as she noted that the wall clock pointed to five minutes before six.
As it rang out the hour, the matron entered the kitchen. “You’d better go now, Miss Lucy,” she said kindly. “I know you have to be at the Armory by half past seven. The mothers of these babies will soon be coming for them. I’ll look after them till then.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Taggart.” Lucy rose amid a chorus of hearty protest from her charges. “Dood-bye,” and “Tum aden soon, nice lady,” greeted her from all sides.
“I will,” she promised, nodding gaily toward her small worshippers. Without glancing at Mignon she turned to the oak settle on which she had laid her wraps and began to put them on. She was, indeed, deeply incensed against Mignon. Should she or should she not inform Jerry Macy of Mignon’s lack of co-operation? She hardly knew what to do about it. On one point she was quite determined. She would not walk home with the French girl. She would bid her a cool “good night” and hurry from the house.
Mignon was of a different opinion. Seeing Lucy engaged in donning her wraps, she lazily rose. Pettishly brushing aside a youngster who had toddled up to her and clutched a fold of her gown, she hastily slipped on her fur coat—she had not removed her hat—and hurried after Lucy. The latter had already delivered her curt farewell and was out on the veranda before Mignon overtook her.
“Wait a minute,” commanded Mignon. “I have something to tell you that you must listen to. You’ll understand that I mean well, the moment you hear it. It’s a shame for you to be so deceived by Marjorie Dean. She——”