“Mais c’est bien drôle!” said a soft voice close behind me.
I had not heard the door open, and yet there stood Aunt Theresa on the threshold, and with her a little old lady. The little old lady had a bright, delicately cut face, eyes of whose expressiveness there could be no question, and large grey curls. She wore a large hat, with large bows tied under her chin, and a dark-green satin driving-cloak lined with white and grey fur.
She looked like a fairy godmother, like the ghost of an ancestor—like “somebody out of a picture.” She was my great-grandmother.
CHAPTER VII.
MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHER—THE DUCHESS’S CARRIAGE—MRS. O’CONNOR IS CURIOUS.
I was much discomfited. My position was not a dignified one at the best, and in childhood such small shames seem too terrible ever to be outlived. My great-grandmother laughed heartily, and Mrs. Buller, whose sense of humour was small, looked annoyed.
“What in the world are you doing here, Margery?” she said.
I had little or no moral courage, and I had not been trained in high principles. If I could have thought of a plausible lie, I fear I should have told it in my dilemma. As it was, I could not; I only put my hand to my burning cheek, and said:
“Let me see!”