“Three times twelve are thirty-six,” said Phyllis under her breath. “She never let out her age to me before.”
The fact that she knew Miss Fleet’s enormously great age gave her a slight feeling of satisfaction.
“Yes,” she said aloud.
“I must be kind to the poor thing; she is so very aged,” was her inward thought.
“Yes, I quite like you when you talk softly,” she said. “Go on, please.”
“I cannot argue with you; I can but give you my opinion. You behaved badly to-day—so badly, so disgracefully that I cannot bring myself to speak of it. You did this in your father’s absence—which made it, let me tell you, ten times worse; but I will forgive you and not tell your father if you make me a promise.”
“What, Miss Fleet?”
“Wait one moment. You don’t care to be always in this room, do you?”
“I hate being in this room. I hate being punished. I hate—I hate—I hate you to be cold to me. Do be nice to me again, Fleetie, for I’m quite too awfully miserable just now;” and the little girl flung her arms round Miss Fleet’s neck and burst into bitter weeping.
After all, Josephine Fleet did love her wayward little charge. She kissed her once or twice and patted her on her arm, and then she said: