One exceedingly wet afternoon, tea being recently concluded, Trix in her bedroom was surveying the weather from the window.
She was debating within her mind whether to don mackintosh and souwester and face the elements, or whether to retire to a far corner of the drawing-room with a novel, as much as possible out of earshot of the Bridge players. She was still in two minds as to which prospect most appealed to her mood, when Mrs. Arbuthnot tapped on her door, and immediately after sailed into the room. It is the only word applicable to Mrs. Arbuthnot’s entry into any room.
She was a large fair woman, very distinctly inclined to stoutness. In her youth she had been both slender, and quick in her movements; but recognizing, and rightly, that quickness means a certain loss of dignity in the stout, she had trained herself to be exceedingly deliberate in her actions. There was an element of consciousness in her deliberation, therefore, which gave the impression of a rather large sailing vessel under weigh.
“Trix, dearest,” she began. And then she perceived that Trix had been observing the weather.
“You were not going out, were you, dearest? I really think it would hardly be wise. It is blowing quite furiously. I know it is rather dull for you as you don’t play Bridge. Such a pity, too, as you understand it so well. But I have a suggestion to make. Will you paste some of my newest prints into the latest album? There is a table in the window in my room, and a fresh bottle of stickphast. Not in the window, I don’t mean that, but in my trunk. And Maunder can find it for you.” Maunder was Mrs. Arbuthnot’s maid.
Trix turned from the window. Of course Mrs. Arbuthnot’s request settled the question of a walk. She had really been in two minds about it.
“Why, of course,” she said. “Where are the prints?”
Mrs. Arbuthnot brightened visibly.
“They’re inside a green envelope on the writing-table. You’ll find a small pair of very sharp scissors there too. The dark edges are so unsightly if not trimmed. You’re sure you don’t mind, dearest? It really will be quite a pleasant occupation. It is so dreadfully wet. And Maunder will give you the stickphast. There is clean blotting-paper on the writing-table too, and Maunder can find you anything else you want. Well, that’s all right. Maunder is in my room now. She will be going to her tea in ten minutes, so perhaps you might go to her at once. And she is sure to be downstairs for at least an hour and a half, if not longer. Servants always have so much to talk about, and take so long saying it. Why, I can’t imagine. It always seems to me so much better not to waste words unnecessarily. So you will have the room to yourself, till she comes to put out my evening things. And I must go back to the drawing-room at once, or they will be waiting Bridge for me. And Lady Fortescue hates being kept waiting. It puts her in a bad temper, and when she’s in a bad temper she is extraordinarily erratic as to her declarations. Though, for that matter, she is seldom anything else. I don’t mean bad-tempered, but seldom anything but erratic. So, dearest, I mustn’t let you keep me any longer. Don’t forget to ask Maunder for the stickphast, and anything else you want. And the prints and the scissors——”