“You will get very plain things here,” said Susie. “It’s only father who has to be petted and fussed over. But then he is worth it—he is such an old dear,” and she looked at him with her honest eyes beaming with affection.
When the meal had come to an end, Florence and Susie were immediately supplied with two large linen aprons, and the work of making marmalade began. For a time, Florence pretended to enjoy it, then her knife slackened, and Susie shouted to her that her pieces of orange peel were almost if not quite worthy of the Colonel’s own.
“I am not going to have it,” she said. “We can only manage to live comfortably by never wasting anything, and if you can’t cut the oranges better than that, you had better stop.”
“Oh, Susie, I am sorry! I will be good.” Florence made a violent effort to do better, but ended in cutting her finger, and then Susie had to spend a long time in binding up the wound and pitying the sufferer.
“You are not a bit yourself to-day,” she said. “What is the matter with you?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Florence. “I am both happy and unhappy.”
“I shouldn’t have thought,” said Susie gravely, “that you were a bit the sort of girl to care whether you had money or not.”
“I shouldn’t mind in the least,” answered Florence, “only that it seems to make such a wonderful difference with people. Mrs Fortescue has turned out so horribly nasty.”
“Oh no,” said Susie. “She is quite natural; she will be all right in a day or two, and as affectionate to you as ever. She is a little disappointed, that is all. She takes her disappointments badly: some people do.”
“But you, Susie—you and your father—you are so sweet.”