No reply.
“In London there are so many fogs, but in the country the fallen leaves are almost as depressing.”
“Perhaps so.”
Nan looked across the room and made a desperate grimace at her companions. Before doing so she made sure that Miss Beveridge was not looking, but she forgot that in turning her head in the opposite direction she was naturally vis-à-vis with Cynthia and Betty, and they—silly things!—simultaneously jerked with surprise, flushed and struggled after speech, thereby hopelessly giving away the situation.
“Er—are you quite sure you will not have a cup of tea? Or—er, coffee? We have both ready. Or a high-tea downstairs, if you care for anything more solid.”
“I have had luncheon, thank you. I am not in the least in need of food,” replied Miss Beveridge in tones of scathing coldness. There was a ghastly silence.
“Horrid thing! Always did hate ’em!” soliloquised Betty.
“How dare she? Ungrateful wretch!” queried Cynthia.
“She’s cross because she’s miserable; she’s just as miserable as she can be! Somebody else could comfort her, but I can’t. She thinks I am a presumptuous chit. Perhaps I am, trying to do work that is far beyond me!” sighed Nan, with a heavy sinking of the heart. She could not attempt to speak, and the silence lasted several minutes, until at last Miss Beveridge roused herself to inquire hesitatingly, yet with a certain suppressed eagerness—
“Were you perhaps wishing to—er—to organise some classes? My time is disengaged on Saturday afternoons. My special subject is music, but I hold very high certificates, and am of course competent to take up other subjects.”