Dreda flushed, and knitted her brows.
“I wasn’t at all excited in this case. I was angry—righteously angry! It’s one’s duty to protest against mean, underhand actions.”
“Such as wanting the best positions for ourselves?”
“Certainly not. That is only natural ambition—laudable ambition. The mean thing is to try to oust someone else—your own best friend, when you know she could do it better than you!”
“Yes!” mused Nancy thoughtfully. “That does sound mean ... This sub-editor post is going to be so difficult that it ought certainly to go to the right person. A careful, methodical, machine-like sort of creature, who will never forget or let others forget. The girls are slack enough about regular work, and will be a hundred times worse about an extra, and The Duck is a tartar about punctuality. It’s going to be a problem to please them and ‘keep the peace.’ But you have had a magazine at home, so you know all about it. Susan has had no experience.”
Nancy had seated herself on her bed once more, her hands clasped round her knees, her lips slightly apart, showing a glimpse of the golden bar round the front teeth; her long, Eastern-looking eyes met Dreda’s without a blink, yet for some mysterious reason Dreda felt her cheeks flush and a jarring doubt awoke in her mind. “A machine”—“never forgetting—never late!” Not even her youthful complaisance could apply that description to herself. The ghosts of past enterprises seemed to rear reproachful heads, reminding her of their existence. To each of the number had been sworn eternal fidelity, yet how short had been their lives! The factory girl, for instance, who had received three long, enthusiastic letters, and after the lapse of a year was still awaiting the receipt of the fourth. Poor Emma Larkins had been so appreciative and grateful. Dreda had been able to talk of nothing else for the first week of the correspondence. She had planned a lifelong friendship, and in imagination had seen herself, aged and wealthy, acting the gracious benefactress to a second generation. How had she happened to forget? She had been busy, her father had taken her for a trip abroad, she had joined a society for the study of French classics. The time had flown by until she had been ashamed to begin writing again. No doubt another correspondent had taken her place ... “Susan has no experience.” True! Yet if one wished to describe Susan’s character, could one do it more aptly than by using Nancy’s own words? “Careful, methodical, machine-like as to accuracy!” What did Nancy mean? Was she really and truly in earnest, or did some hidden meaning lurk behind the seemingly innocent words? Dreda drew a long breath, and set her teeth in the determination to set an example of diligence and punctuality to all sub-editors beneath the sun, and by so doing to demonstrate in the most practical of fashions her suitability for the post.
Chapter Twelve.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy—and Jill a dull girl also. Miss Bretherton was a firm believer in this old adage, and loyally tried to provide a due proportion of amusement for her pupils. In the winter terms bad weather often interfered with outdoor sports, but every alternate Saturday evening a reception was held in the drawing-room between the hours of seven and nine thirty, on which occasions thirty pupils dressed for the fray with gleeful anticipation, and the thirty-first with trembling foreboding, for it was she who was chosen to play the part of hostess and take sole management and responsibility of the entertainment.