The first governess had arrived!
Chapter Twelve.
Miss Beveridge.
She was small and thin, with a bleached, joyless face, which seemed all of the same dull grey tint. Grey hair, grey eyes, grey complexion, a pinched-in mouth and deeply-furrowed forehead. She was dressed in black—shabby black, which is the shabbiest of all shabbies—and, looking at her, it seemed impossible to believe that there had ever been a time when she was young and happy, and had frisked and frolicked, and liked pretty things like any ordinary girl. Cynthia and Betty felt a chill of dismay, but Nan’s heart gave a throb of delight. This was one of the very starved, joyless lives which she longed to brighten; it would have been difficult to find a better type of the class. She walked quickly forward, and held out a warm, welcoming hand.
“How do you do? I am so pleased you have come?”
Miss Beveridge looked at her coldly, then cast an inquiring glance around the room; at the luxurious hangings and furniture, at the glowing fire, at Betty slim and childish in her simple blue frock, at Cynthia with her flowing locks.
“Is—is Mrs Vanburgh not at home?” she inquired, drawing up her thin figure with an air of wounded dignity. “I understood that the hours mentioned were from three to seven, but if she is engaged—”
Nan smiled in the merry, radiant manner which made her look even younger than her years.