She stopped crying almost immediately, mopped her eyes and smiled. Then she said, abruptly—
“I don’t think I like Mrs Fortescue.”
“That is wrong of you, Brenda. She has always been good to us.”
“I know it is wrong of me,” said Brenda, “not to like her, but all the same, I don’t. I was never sure about it till to-night. Now I am practically certain I don’t like her.”
“But why?” said Florence. “Is it because she dyes her hair?”
“That is one thing,” said Brenda. “The character of the woman who dyes her hair must be objectionable to me. I don’t want her to have anything to do with my future. I shall tell Mr Timmins so to-morrow.”
“Oh, will you really? She will be so terribly disappointed.”
“I can’t help it,” said Brenda.
Florence had seated herself in a very comfortable easy-chair and Brenda was kneeling at her feet.
“You see,” she said solemnly, “we have only one life in this world—one life and one youth, and I don’t want mine to be commonplace. I think Mrs Fortescue would make it so. I can stand her for four weeks at Christmas; I can even endure her for seven weeks in the summer. But always! No, Flo, no: I couldn’t endure her always, could you?”