She had a sort of defiant manner in these days—quite different from her old way which, although languid, provokingly so at times, was at least downright and matter-of-fact.
“What is it?” she said. “Why are you so mysterious?”
“I thought you wanted your sister to come to see the tableaux.”
“Oh, Brenda—yes, she says she will come; I heard from her only this morning. Is Mrs Hazlitt agreeable?”
“Quite agreeable.”
“And may she share my room and bed?”
“That is just the point that I want to speak to you about, Penelope. She may not do so. Mrs Hazlitt’s ideas on that subject are quite fixed and cannot by any possibility be altered. If your sister comes, we must find a room for her in the village.”
“It doesn’t much matter whether she comes or not,” said Penelope, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t suppose she will care to go to the expense of a room in the village. She is very young too, and can’t sleep alone at a hotel.”
“But you would like her to see you as Helen of Troy?”
“Like it!” said Penelope—“yes, perhaps I should. I hate the whole thing as I never hated anything in all my life before, but it might be a sort of satisfaction to have Brenda there. I’d do a good deal—yes, a good deal for Brenda; but I don’t think she will stay in the village.”