Now Esther had been nearly seventeen when she died; she was not quite seventeen. Mr Manchuri felt glad that Priscilla was not quite seventeen.
“I thought of course, you were going home,” he said—“that perhaps you had some one who wanted you very much. Why should you, I wonder, leave Lady Lushington’s party?”
“There was not room for all of us at the hotel at Zermatt, so I am going back to England.”
“But why you?” said Mr Manchuri. He felt quite angry. How furious he would have been if any one had treated his Esther like that!—and this girl had a voice very like Esther’s. “Why you? Why should this be your lot?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Priscilla. “Some one had to do it.”
“I see; that little Annie Brooke would not go, for instance—not she; she is far too clever.”
“She offered to go,” said Priscilla, who would not allow even Annie to appear at a disadvantage.
Mr Manchuri laughed.
“There is a way of offering, isn’t there, Miss— Forgive me, my dear; I have not caught your name. What is it?”
“Priscilla Weir.”