“No doubt.”
“They can’t get their clothes spoiled if they don’t wear any.”
“Obviously. Come, now, Isabelle, put on your dress like a nice girl. The children will be coming to the party, and you won’t be dressed.”
“I won’t put on that dress, and I’m not going to the party, I tell you; I hate them.”
Miss Wilder tried force, but in vain. She tried strategy, with no results. Isabelle wriggled out of her grasp and darted out of the room. Miss Wilder called; no reply. She commanded; no answer. Then she closed her lips more firmly and betook herself to the door of Mrs. Bryce’s room.
“What is it? I told you not to bother me,” an irritated voice called, at her knock.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bryce, but Isabelle refuses to be dressed for the party. She says she won’t go.”
“Come in,” called the voice.
The governess opened the door and entered. It was a hot day, and Mrs. Bryce, in a cool négligé, lay stretched out on a chaise longue, with a pitcher of something iced beside her, a book open on her lap. She was the picture of luxurious comfort, except for the frown upon her pretty brow.