“Would you like that?” he said, touched by this unusual mark of affection.
“Yes. You always do what I want you to,” replied his tactless child.
“I have other things to do than to look after a fresh little shrimp like you.”
The “new one” was a middle-aged English gentlewoman of the usual governess type. Isabelle knew the kind thoroughly. She had initiated whole companies of them into life at The Beeches. Miss Watts, this one was called. She was putting her things into bureau drawers, when Isabelle appeared at the door of the bathroom which joined their rooms.
“Is this Isabelle?” inquired the new victim.
The child nodded.
“How do you do? I am Miss Watts.”
“I know.”
“I hope we are going to be friends——”
“I never like governesses—only one.”