“The colour of what?” I said.
She had her umbrella in her hand. It was very neatly folded. I really don’t know why she brought it, as we had driven in a covered carriage; but now she poked and poked in the snow with it until she came to the grass beneath.
“The colour of that,” she said.
I am sure I turned scarlet; and I can assure you, readers, that I was not at all pretty when I turned that colour, for my complexion was somewhat muddy, and I had none of those delicate pinks and whites in my skin which make people think you so absolutely charming.
“I don’t understand you,” I said. “I think you are very rude.”
She laughed and patted me on the arm.
“You are a very nice girl,” she said. “I know that; but you will forgive me. I perceive that Miss Grace Donnithorne is right and you know nothing of the world.”
“I don’t know anything whatever of the world you live in,” I answered. “I know nothing whatever of the world which suddenly declares that a person whom I scarcely know at all knows more of the heart of the one person whom I have been brought up with all my life than I do myself. I positively declare that Miss Grace Donnithorne does not know as much about father as I do.”
“And I defy you to prove it. If I were a boy I’d make a bet on it,” said Hermione. “But there I never mind; don’t let us talk on the subject any longer. Come and show me your room, and afterwards you can tell me about yourself.”
I had to crush down my gathering wrath, and we went upstairs. Hermione was restless; I tried to talk in a matter-of-fact and yet haughty sort of way, but she hardly replied.