Then she went off into her room and came back with a curious little heap of garments in her arms. There was a brown serge coat and skirt—the skirt unfashionably full, while the coat was short and skimpy. Then there were two clean, washed-out-looking flannel blouses.
“This, I take it, is the sort of thing you want? But I strongly advise you to buy some thick woollen underwear. After all, the woman won’t see what you’re wearing underneath your coat and skirt.”
“How clever you are, Rachel. I should never have thought of that,” said Jean admiringly.
“You don’t want to go and fall ill the first day you’re there. Especially as you’ll have need of an alert mind. I’m afraid you’ll have very nasty food.”
“I don’t mind that,” said Jean quickly.
“Oh, don’t you? Well, you wait a bit. It’s easy to talk like that! I’ve come to think that nice food is one of the most important things in the world. If I were you I should take some malted milk, or cod liver oil and malt, in your trunk.”
“Trunk?” queried Jean doubtfully.
“A good, big, deep suitcase rather than a wooden box. The woman who’s going to employ you won’t think your bringing such a thing queer at all. In fact, I think she’d think it odd if you came with practically nothing but a hold-all.”
“I suppose that’s true,” said Jean. “All right—I put myself in your hands. You shall tell me what to do!”
Rachel North smiled. She was one of those women who love power, and, given the chance, exercise it wisely.