He drew a little closer to her. She felt that she had secured his sympathy.
“Can’t you understand,” continued Annie, “that things may happen which involve other people? Can’t you understand?”
“It is difficult to know why you cannot speak about them, Annie,” replied the young man. “Nevertheless, if you say so, it is of course the case.”
“It is the case. I undertook, perhaps wrongly—although I don’t think so—to get a school fellow what she wanted most in the world last term. I wish you knew her; she is such a splendid, noble girl. She is very clever, too. I will tell you her name—Priscilla Weir. She has such a fine face, with, oh! so much in it. But she is unhappily situated. Her father is in India, and either cannot or will not help her; and she has no mother living, poor darling! and her uncle, her mother’s brother, is quite a dreadful sort of creature. Priscilla is, oh, so clever! She has quite wonderful talents. And what do you think this uncle wants to do? Why, to apprentice her to a dressmaker. Think of it—a dressmaker!”
John Saxon did think of it but he showed no surprise. One of the nicest girls he knew in Tasmania was a dressmaker. She was very well informed, and could talk well on many subjects. She read good books, and had a dear little house of her own, and often and often he sat and talked with her of an evening, when the day’s work was done and they were both at leisure to exchange confidences. John Saxon was not the least bit in love with the dressmaker, but for her sake now he could not condemn the occupation. He said, therefore, quietly:
“As long as women wear dresses there must be other women to make them, I suppose. I see nothing derogatory in that, Annie, provided your friend likes it.”
“Oh, how can you talk in such a way?” said Annie, her tone changing now to one of almost petulance. “Why, if Priscie were turned into a dressmaker she would lose her position; she wouldn’t have a chance; she would go under; and she is so clever—oh, so clever! It does not require that sort of cleverness to be a dressmaker.”
“Perhaps not,” said Saxon. “I begin to understand; your English view of the calling is not ours in Tasmania. And so you want to go to Paris to help this girl?”
“Yes; principally about her. In fact, I may say I am going almost wholly about her.”
“I am not to know the reason?”