“Firm and tactful!—I like that!” uttered Colin. “Will she let you control the little beasts with a stick?”
“Be quiet—there’s more yet. ‘My house is large, and I keep three maids. A dinner-dress is advisable, should you have one. If you decide to come to me, I should like you to leave Melbourne on the second of January.’ ” And she was mine faithfully, Marie McNab.
“Born—or christened, rather—plain Mary, I’ll bet,” was Colin’s comment. “What’s the enclosure?”
The enclosure was the “references exchanged”: a vague sort of assurance from the clergyman in Wootong that Mrs. McNab of “The Towers” was all that she ought to be. Colin remarked that it seemed to deal more with her religious beliefs than her ideas on feeding-up tired assistants, which latter was the point on which he was more curious; but he supposed it was all right. And then he and Madge sat and looked at me, waiting for me to speak.
“I think I’ll go,” I said, when the silence was becoming oppressive. “There can be no harm in trying—and, thank goodness, it doesn’t cost anything.”
“The old cat might have offered you a bit more screw,” said Madge, with that extreme elegance of diction which marks the college girl. “Apparently she’s wading in wealth—three maids, and lives in Towers, and has a crest as big as your head on her notepaper. Flamboyant display, I call it. How about striking for more pay after you get there?”
“Not done,” said Colin. “Doris doesn’t belong to a Union. I say, Dor, have you got enough clothes for living in Towers?”
“Oh, they’ll do, I think,” I answered; “there’s some advantage of being in half-mourning. I shall have to fix up a few little things, but not much. Shoes are the worst; I do need a new pair. My brown ones are put away; old Hoxon can stain them black for me.”
Madge sighed.
“I hate blacked-up brown,” she said. “And they were such pretty shoes, Dor.”