“My name is Josephine Fleet.”
“Ah, you are little Phyllis Harringay’s governess. I received a somewhat extraordinary note from you before dinner.”
“I am puzzled to know why you should think it extraordinary. Phyllis asked your children to spend the afternoon with her. I did not find it convenient to have them. I wrote to you plainly on the subject. You seem to be a frank sort of person yourself; you cannot, therefore, object to frankness in others.”
“On the contrary, I admire it. Pray push that bale of red flannel across the table. Thank you.”
“Oh! I cannot help to measure the flannel into yards,” ejaculated the angry Miss Fleet.
“I don’t require you to. Have you come here because you have changed your mind and wish the children to go to the Hall? But I am afraid I cannot find them now; they have dispersed. I always turn them out of doors, whatever the weather, in the afternoon. Pray, do tell me what you want, and—don’t mind my being a little brusque—go—”
“You really are,” began Miss Fleet, but she checked herself. “I have come here,” she continued, “to ask you a question. Phyllis is not to be found anywhere. Is she—Mrs Hilchester—is she at the Rectory?”
“The Squire’s little girl? Most certainly not. Do you suppose we would have her here against your will?”
“Well, I hope not. Where can she be?”
“My dear, good creature, how can I tell you? I have never set eyes on the child. Pass those scissors, please, and—yes, and that basket with the cottons. Thank you so much. Would you like to sew up a seam while we are discussing where the little girl can be? Ah, I see you are not willing to help. Well, well! good-afternoon.”