“She does not look very well, Belle. She seems so tired, and—I scarcely like to say the word—so hungry.”
“Oh, I dare say she is!” replied Belle in a careless tone. “She was always a good bit of an oddity, and in the pursuit of knowledge doubtless neglected her food; but as to her being ill, I think she is all right. She has worked rather hard, that is all.”
“Then we will give her a right good time; won’t we, dear?” said Mrs. Acheson.
Belle stared at her mother through her glasses, and again did not reply. She went into the drawing room in her dusty boots.
“As we have a guest to-night, Belle, dear; and——”
“What in the world is it, mother? What are you fidgeting so dreadfully about?”
“Nothing, my love; only would you greatly mind going upstairs to wash your hands, tidy your hair, and take off your dusty boots before dinner?”
“Oh, dear,” replied Belle in an impatient voice. “If I had thought Annie Colchester’s being here would mean all this sort of thing I would have thought twice before I invited her.”
It was now Mrs. Acheson’s turn to make no reply. She knew Belle quite well enough to be certain that it was worse than useless to argue with her. If she left that eccentric young person to herself, things as a rule turned out according to Mrs. Acheson’s wish.
Belle hummed and hawed, and looked very cross, but finally did leave the room.