Brenda had achieved her object, and Harry Jordan was going to take her to the play. She had succeeded in this by writing him a note proposing the arrangement, and also offering to pay for his ticket. Harry Jordan had accepted, thinking all the time how infinitely he would prefer going to the play with Nettie Harris, the girl who was just at present engaging his wayward fancy. Brenda meant to make the most of this opportunity with regard to Harry. Fanchon must, of course, be her companion. Her hopes rose high as the hour approached.
“Girls,” said Brenda, rising front the supper table, “go up immediately to your bedroom, it is very late.”
“Late?” cried Mrs Simpkins, “it is more than half an hour earlier than usual. We have all of us been, so to speak, unconversational to-night. We have eaten our supper without repining. It was not quite as tasty a supper as what you gave us, dear Mademoiselle, but we have eaten it silently. I will go and sit on my balcony presently, in order to get cool. Peter’s eye-tooth is certain to come through this evening, and I mustn’t be far from the blessed darling. Ah, my dear young ladies! what troubles we take on ourselves when we put our heads under the matrimonial yoke. But there, children are blessings—”
“In disguise, perhaps,” murmured Mademoiselle. Then Mrs Simpkins waddled off: Miss Price followed suit: one or two of the other ladies also left the room; and Brenda, driving her pupils before her as though they were a flock of sheep, left Mademoiselle and Mrs Dawson alone.
“The supper,” said Mademoiselle, “it was triste. The good food it cost—oh, much, much! but it was not delectable. You needed me, chère Madame, to make the viands of the lightness and delicacy that would tempt the jaded appetite.”
“But I can’t have you always, Mademoiselle, so where’s the use of trusting to you?” said Mrs Dawson, rather crossly.
“Ah, I knew not!” sighed Mademoiselle. “The future, it may declare itself in the direction least expected—I know not, but I think much.”
Mrs Dawson longed to question her further. Was she alluding to the bangle! Why had she gone to Beverley Castle that day? Why was it not to be mentioned? She felt her heart burning with curiosity. But there was no amusement for her, poor woman, that hot evening. It was necessary for her to go back to her tiny parlour, and there sum up accounts and wonder how she could make two ends meet. For, to tell the truth, the boarders were hardly profitable, and it was very difficult for her to fulfil the requirements of her fairly large household.
While Mrs Dawson was thus employed, poring over her large account-book, spectacles on nose, and her face quite moist with the heat, Mademoiselle herself burst into the room.
“I make not the apology,” she cried, “for the occasion is supreme. Behold!”—and she pushed the gold and turquoise bracelet into Mrs Dawson’s hand.