When dinner was announced, the two girls entered the dining-room together. Annie was only able to make a very scanty and imperfect toilet; for her clothes, which she had telegraphed to her late landlady to forward, had not yet arrived.
They went down to dinner. The meal was a good one, and nicely served. Annie ate heartily, and felt considerably
refreshed afterwards. She was tired too; there was a sort of stunned feeling over her. If Mrs. Acheson only knew the truth, if she could guess even for a single moment that between Annie and starvation were only four shillings, would she not immediately think that she, Annie, had come into her house on false pretenses. People as a rule, do not ask starving girls to partake of the comforts of their luxurious homes. There is the workhouse for such as them. Annie shivered. The idea of confiding in Mrs. Acheson never occurred to her.
Meanwhile, that good and excellent woman had taken a fancy to the forlorn girl. She determined to give her a right good time, and to get at that secret which knitted her dark brows, and made her beautiful red-brown eyes so full of indescribable melancholy. Annie could not help cheering up after a little, in the sunshine of this rare kindness. The little week which lay before her was an oasis in the desert; she would enjoy it while she could. She might gather some strength during these few days for the solitary and miserable time which lay before her. But, after all, her poverty was scarcely her worst trouble now. It was the thought of Rupert, the terrible and awful thought that he had once more been guilty, that he had broken his solemn word, that the police even now were at his heels.
“What is to be done?” thought the wretched girl. “How am I to help him?”
Presently Mrs. Acheson suggested that they should go to bed.
“You can scarcely keep your eyes open,” she said, looking at Annie. “Do go up to your room at once, dear, and have a long, good sleep.”
“Not quite yet, mother,” said Belle, looking up from her book. “I want Annie Colchester to help me with
this translation. I know she has gone right through the sixth book of Herodotus, and I have not. I want her to help me with the translation of the story which gave rise to the saying ‘What does Hippocleides care?’”
Mrs. Acheson sighed, and made no answer: a moment later she left the room.