On the way back to the agency, he counselled her on her behaviour.
“Now, don’t be fresh, Isabelle, and say, ‘I don’t like the wart on your nose,’ or that kind of thing.”
“Do I have to get one with a wart on her nose?” she asked seriously.
“No, no. I mean—don’t say the wrong thing all the time.”
“But I don’t know what is the wrong thing, Wally,” she assured him.
“I should say you didn’t! You just let me do the talking. If you like the one I’m interviewing, just nod; if you don’t, why shake your head. Get me?”
“Like this?”—with neck-breaking violence of the head.
“No—no. Gently, like this.”
They seated themselves in the agency room, and the governesses were presented. The usual drab, rather faded women, used to living in the background. Some of them resented Isabelle’s presence, some of them spoke to her as to a baby. After about three sentences had been spoken, her head would move violently, and Wally got rid of the candidate.