“But,” said Jane, blunt in her distress, “will they believe it?”
“Why will they not believe it, pray?”
“Why, I am afraid people have the impression that dear Annie has—” Jane hesitated.
“What?” asked Imogen, coldly. She looked very handsome that morning. Not a waved golden hair was out of place on her carefully brushed head. She wore the neatest of blue linen skirts and blouses, with a linen collar and white tie. There was something hard but compelling about her blond beauty.
“I am afraid,” said Jane, “that people have a sort of general impression that dear Annie has perhaps as sweet a disposition as any of us, perhaps sweeter.”
“Nobody says that dear Annie has not a sweet disposition,” said Imogen, taking a careful stitch in her embroidery. “But a sweet disposition is very often extremely difficult for other people. It constantly puts them in the wrong. I am well aware of the fact that dear Annie does a great deal for all of us, but it is sometimes irritating. Of course it is quite certain that she must have a feeling of superiority because of it, and she should not have it.”
Sometimes Eliza made illuminating speeches. “I suppose it follows, then,” said she, with slight irony, “that only an angel can have a very sweet disposition without offending others.”
But Imogen was not in the least nonplussed. She finished her line of thought. “And with all her sweet disposition,” said she, “nobody can deny that dear Annie is peculiar, and peculiarity always makes people difficult for other people. Of course it is horribly peculiar what she is proposing to do now. That in itself will be enough to convince people that dear Annie must be difficult. Only a difficult person could do such a strange thing.”
“Who is going to get up and get breakfast in the morning, and wash the dishes?” inquired Jane, irrelevantly.
“All I ever want for breakfast is a bit of fruit, a roll, and an egg, besides my coffee,” said Imogen, with her imperious air.