With the last words tears came with a rush, the tears that had been resolutely restrained throughout the strain of the last week. Claire dropped her head on the nearest resting-place she could find, which happened to be Miss Rhodes’s blue serge lap, and felt the quick pressure of a hand over the glossy coils.
“Poor little girl!” said the English mistress softly. “Poor little girl! I’m sorry! I’m a beast! Take no notice of me. I’m a sour, disagreeable old thing. It was more than half jealousy, dear, because you looked so pretty and spry, so like what I used to look myself. The life’s all right, if you keep well, and don’t worry too much ahead. There, don’t cry! I loathe tears! You will yourself, when you have to deal with silly, hysterical girls. Come, I’ll promise I won’t poison you any more—at least, I’ll do my best; but I’ve a grumbling nature, and you’d better realise it, once for all, and take no notice. We’ll get on all right. I like you. I’m glad you came. My good girl, if you don’t stop, I’ll shake you till you do!”
Claire sat back on her heels, mopped her eyes, and gave a strangled laugh.
“I hate crying myself, but I’ll begin again on the faintest provocation. It’s always like that with me. I hardly ever cry, but when I once begin—”
Miss Rhodes rose with an air of determination.
“We’d better go out. I am free till lunch-time. I’ll take you round and show you the neighbourhood, and the usual places of call. It will save time another day. Anything you want to buy?”
Claire mopped away another tear.
“C–certainly,” she said feebly. “A c–offee machine.”