Chapter Eighteen.
The Locked Drawer.
Brenda was looking eagerly forward to the evening. A great deal would depend on the evening, for then she would see Harry Jordan again, and find out whether he was impressed or not. She had already perceived in that charming youth a passion for greatness—a snobbish devotion to the great ones of this world. She had wondered within herself why he cared so much for people with “handles,” as he expressed it, to their names. If he was as rich as he described himself, surely these things scarcely mattered to him.
Well, she at least was gently born, and had friends in the class which he so coveted to know. She was very, very pretty, and he had almost told her that he loved her.
“Fanchon,” said the governess to her eldest pupil that day, “we’ll go out by ourselves after supper to-night and walk on the promenade and listen to the band. The two younger children must go to bed immediately after supper; I must insist on that; Mrs Simpkins always helps me with regard to that. She thinks it is good for children to put them early to bed. But for that one redeeming trait in her character, I should detest the woman.”
“Oh, every one in the house is detestable!” said Fanchon, “except perhaps Mademoiselle.”
Brenda lowered her brows. The two younger girls were well on in front.
“I like Mademoiselle the least of all,” she said.