“Obey your governess, my dear,” said Mrs Simpkins. “You’re dead tired: creep upstairs, all three of you, and don’t, for the life of you, wake my Georgie, for he’s that fractious—enough to madden a body.”
The girls had to depart, and then Miss Price went up to Mrs Dawson and whispered something in her ear, the result of which was that Mrs Dawson went to the door and called Jane. She gave her hurried directions and, by-and-by, what should appear in the little drawing-room but delicious ices which had hastily been fetched from a neighbouring confectioner’s, and which Miss Price meant to pay for. Mademoiselle declared that she fairly gloated on the ices made in Angleterre; even Brenda was soothed by a really good strawberry ice, and, as there was one apiece, all the ladies congregated round and ate their dainties with deliberation.
“Now tell me about the Castle, do,” said Miss Price. “Is it as grand as they make out, or do they exaggerate?”
“Of course they exaggerate,” said Mrs Simpkins. “Folks of that kind always do.”
“But no,” cried Mademoiselle, “that is imposseeble to exaggerate the so great glories of Castle Beverley! It cannot be done. I have heard it described, and I was ravished with what I was told.”
“I have been there,” said Brenda. “I have spent the day; my sister is a special friend of Miss Beverley.”
“Not so very special,” whispered Mademoiselle, something like a little snake at that moment, in Brenda’s ear. Brenda turned and looked full at her. Their eyes met. It seemed at that instant that these two—the young girl and the experienced woman—crossed swords, and that Brenda got the worst of the encounter. There was a pause for a minute. Then she said, quietly:
“I don’t know with regard to the depth of the friendship, but I only know that my sweet sister Penelope is staying at the Castle, and that it is—oh, well—a very nice sort of place. I could imagine more beautiful places.”
“Windsor Castle, perhaps,” whispered Mademoiselle, at which remark Miss Price tittered audibly.
“But tell us, dear,” said Mrs Simpkins. “I have been thinking all day about it. I assure you that the thought of your return has kept me up although the heat is fearful, and Georgie is so cross, and little Peter cutting another tooth—oh dear! Of course I love my children, but sometimes they seem to do things just to spite you; for the doctor told me flat that Peter’s eye-teeth would not be due for another two months, and I made certain that we’d have our seaside holiday over before he began on it. The aggravation of eye-teeth is almost past bearing. I often say if a woman can live through the eye-teeth of her children, she’ll live through anything. But there—I am digressing. Go on, Miss Carlton, do.”