“Whatever we do,” Verena had said on several occasions, “we must not let Penelope out of the nursery until she is quite eight years old. She is so much the cleverest of us that she’d simply turn us all round her little finger. She must stay with nurse as long as possible.”
“I know what you are talking about,” said Penelope. “It’s about her, and she’s coming to-morrow. I told nurse, and she said she oughtn’t never to come.”
“No, that she oughtn’t,” said nurse. “The child is alluding to Miss Tredgold. She haven’t no call here, and I don’t know why she is coming.”
“Look here, nurse,” said Verena; “she is coming, and nothing in the world will prevent her doing so. The thing we have to consider is this: how soon will she go?”
“She’ll go, I take it,” said nurse, “as soon as ever she finds out she ain’t wanted.”
“And how are we to tell her that?” said Verena. “Now, do put on your considering-cap at once, you wise old woman.”
“Yes, do show us the way out, for we can’t have her here,” said Briar. “It is absolutely impossible. She’ll try to turn us into fine ladies, and she’ll talk about the dresses we should have, and she’ll want father to get some awful woman to come and live with us. She’ll want the whole house to be turned topsy-turvy.”
“Eh!” said nurse, “I’ll tell you what it is. Ladies like Miss Tredgold need their comforts. She won’t find much comfort here, I’m thinking. She’ll need her food well cooked, and that she won’t get at The Dales. She’ll need her room pretty and spick-and-span; she won’t get much of that sort of thing at The Dales. My dear young ladies, you leave the house as it is, and, mark my words, Miss Tredgold will go in a week’s time at the latest.”