“The first thing we must be positive about is this,” said Annie: “Priscilla is to know nothing.”
“Of course not,” said Mabel. “Mabel, I do wish we could get her back to England; she is so tiresome and in the way, and I have a great fear in my head about her.”
“What is that? She is harmless enough, poor thing! Only, of course, she does look such a dowd. But, then, Aunt Henrietta has taken such a fancy to her.”
“Oh, you are absolutely quite mistaken about that. Your aunt took a fancy to her on the first night because she spoke in rather an original way and, I suppose, looked handsome, which she does occasionally; and your aunt is very easily impressed by anything that she considers rather fine. But I assure you that it is my private opinion that she is sick of Priscilla by this time, and also rather ashamed of her appearance. Priscilla has no tact whatever—simply none. When does she help your aunt? When does she do anything to oblige others? She just flops about and looks so gauche and awkward.”
“Well, poor thing! she can’t help that. With Susan Martin as her dressmaker what chance has she?”
“She is just an oddity,” said Annie; “and it is my impression that your aunt is tired of oddities. I can make her a little more tired, and I will.”
“Oh Annie! Poor Priscie! and she does enjoy the mountain air so, and is such a splendid climber. You might as well let her have her holiday out. You are so frightfully clever, Annie; you can always achieve your purpose. But I think, if I were you, I would let poor old Priscie alone.”
“I would if there were no danger,” said Annie.
“Danger—in her direction? What do you mean?”
“There is very grave danger,” said Annie—“very grave indeed. I am more afraid about Priscie than about anything else in the whole of this most unfortunate affair.”