Mrs. de Tracy took no notice. “Write in my name to Maria Spalding, please,” she commanded. “Be sure that there is no mistake about dates. Mention the departure and arrival of trains, and say that Mrs. David Loring will find a fly at the station. That is all, I think.”
The companion bent officiously forward. “You remember, of course, that young Mr. Lavendar comes down next week upon business?”
“Well, what if he does?” asked Mrs. de Tracy shortly.
“Mrs. David Loring is a widow,” murmured the companion darkly; “a young American widow; and they are said to be so dangerous!”
Mrs. de Tracy drew herself up. “Do you insinuate that the Admiral’s niece will lay herself out to attract Mr. Lavendar, a 17 widow in the house of a widow! You go rather too far, Miss Smeardon, though you are speaking of an American. Besides, allusions of this character are extremely distasteful to me. I have been told that the minds of unmarried women are always running upon love affairs, but I should hardly have thought it of you.”
“I’m sure I never imagined any about myself!” murmured Miss Smeardon with the pitiable writhe of the trodden-on worm.
“I should suppose not,” rejoined Mrs. de Tracy gravely, and the companion took up her pen obediently to write to Maria Spalding.
“Shall I send your love to the Admiral’s niece?” she humbly enquired, “or––or something of the kind?” There was irony in the last phrase, but it was quite unconscious.
“Not my love,” replied Mrs. de Tracy, “some suitable message. Make no mistake about the dates, remember.”