“If I remember rightly,” said Miss Parrott drily, “that Jimmy is considered by the village people to be an idle, good-for-nothing boy, Mrs. Pepper.”
“Yes, he’s idle,” confessed Mrs. Pepper, “but I believe he will work, for he thinks so much of his mother.”
“And you want him to go to the circus with your children, and in my carriage!”
It was perfectly dreadful the silence that followed. At last Mrs. Pepper said in a low but distinct voice, “Yes, Miss Parrott.”
“I am sorry—but I am obliged to say I consider it unwise to draw that boy into the company.” Miss Parrott drew herself up stiffly against the high-backed chair, till she looked exactly like the portrait in the wide hall, the most disagreeable of all the ancestors whom she possessed.
Mrs. Pepper opened her lips, thought better of it, and closed them. Then she got off from her chair.
“Do sit down,” Miss Parrott waved her long fingers. “I want to oblige you, Mrs. Pepper,” she said, struggling to throw a little cordiality into her manner and tone, “but I cannot see my way clear to grant this request.”
Again there was silence, cold and dreadful; then Mrs. Pepper moved toward the door. Miss Parrott got out of her chair, “Don’t go.” She took a step or two, astonished at herself. When had she ever capitulated to any one, and here was a plain woman from a little brown house making her experience such a strange desire to yield to the distasteful request!
“I really wish you would tell me,” she laid the long fingers on Mrs. Pepper’s shawl, “all about it—why you wish that boy to be drawn in to the company, with your children. It is most astonishing. I cannot understand it.”
So Mrs. Pepper suffered herself to be led, and she presently found herself sitting, this time on the brocaded sofa, and Miss Parrott by her side.