“What absurdity! And even if she did get such uncalled-for, such unsuitable dresses, the sum total from a country dressmaker would not amount to seventy pounds.”
“Well, I tell you what I would do if I were you,” said Annie. “If you will let me, I will write in your name for the items. Mrs Priestley has only sent you ‘To account rendered,’ has she not?”
“That is a good idea,” said Lady Lushington. “I must speak to Mabel about her frocks when she appears. As a matter of fact, I do not mind what I spend on her now that she has come out, or partly come out, for of course she won’t be really introduced into society until she is presented next year. But seventy pounds for one schoolgirl’s wardrobe for a single term is too much.”
“Then I may write?” said Annie, her hand trembling a little.
“Certainly. Tell the woman to send all items at once here. Really, this has worried me.”
Lady Lushington did not notice that, notwithstanding all Annie’s apparent coolness, there were additional spots of colour on her cheeks, and that her hand shook a little as she penned the necessary words. Suppose the majestic Mrs Priestley recognised her handwriting! There was no help for it now, however, and any delay in grappling with the evil hour was welcome.
The letter was written and laid with several others on the table. Lady Lushington remarked after a minute’s pause:
“I may as well confide in you, Miss Brooke, that nothing ever astonished me more than Mabel’s success in gaining that literature prize; for you know, my dear, between you and me, she is not at all clever.”
“Oh, how you mistake her!” said Annie, with enthusiasm. “Dear Mabel does not care to talk about her deepest feelings or about those magnificent thoughts which visit her mind.”
“She has no thoughts, my dear, except the silliest,” said Mabel’s aunt, with a laugh.