Chapter Eleven.
Conspirators.
Annie Day and her friend Rosalind ceased to laugh as soon as they turned the corner. Annie now turned her eyes and fixed them on Rosalind, who blushed and looked uncomfortable.
“Well,” said Annie, “you are a humbug, Rose! What a story you told me about Mr Hammond—how he looked at you, and was so anxious to make use of you. Oh, you know all you said. You told me a charming story about your position as ‘gooseberry.’ You expected a little fun for yourself, didn’t you, my friend? Well, it seems to me that if anyone is to have the fun, it is Priscilla Peel.”
Rosalind had rather a nervous manner. She bit her lips now; her baby-blue eyes looked angry, her innocent face wore a frown. She dropped her hold of Annie Day’s arm.
Miss Day was one of the most commonplace girls at Heath Hall. She had neither good looks nor talent; she had no refinement of nature, nor had she those rugged but sterling qualities of honesty and integrity of purpose which go far to cover a multitude of other defects.
“I wish you wouldn’t speak to me in that way,” said Rosalind, with a little gasp. “I hate people to laugh at me, and I can’t stand sneers.”
“Oh, no! you’re such a dear little innocent baby. Of course, I can quite understand. And does she suppose I’ll ruffle her pretty little feathers? No, not I. I’d rather invent a new cradle song for you, Rosie, dear.”
“Don’t, don’t!” said Rosalind. “Look here, Annie, I must say something—yes, I must. I hate Maggie Oliphant!”