“It was such fun,” continued Piers. “She used to guess all sorts of things, and sometimes she shot very near the mark, nurse, but never quite. Sometimes she was almost cross, and she would say I must tell her. She’s wonderfully full of curiosity for such an old body. She never quite guessed, though once or twice she got very near to it. One day she said perhaps I was a prince in disguise. Oh, how I clapped my hands when she said that! I laughed—didn’t I laugh just! I said, ‘Good, good, good, but not quite right.’”
“For Heaven’s sake, child, hush!” said Clara. “Mother, do you mind going into the other room for a moment?”
“Highty tighty!” said the old lady. “I can see well there’s a change come over you, Clara. You wouldn’t talk to your mother like that in the old days. Oh, to be sure I’ll go; but I intend to have a word with you myself by and by.”
The old woman went into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.
“Now, Piers,” said Clara.
“Are you going to be angry with me?” asked Piers. “You look something like you used to look when you made me stare into your eyes.”
“Do you remember that?” asked Mrs. Tarbot in some alarm.
“I do, in a puzzled sort of way. I used rather to like it at first. I used to feel that I loved you, and yet I hated you. I felt I’d do anything in all the world for you, and yet I could not bear you. Nurse, you’re not going to make me look at you again like that?”
“Never, as there is a heaven above,” answered the woman.
“Why are you trembling? Let me keep my arms tight round your neck. That soft black lace suits you awfully well. Mother wears lace like that—it’s very good, and it’s expensive. Are you a rich lady now, nurse?”