“All brothers are, my dear,” returned Pauline oracularly, “and it is sisters who make them so. Come, strike a blow for your liberty, Rose. You are not really wanted at home, and you are wasting your days in that dull little country place. Wouldn’t you like to live here with me?”
Rose’s face was answer enough. She drew a deep breath before she spoke. “If only Aunt Lucy wouldn’t miss me too much, Pauline! But she’s not strong. I don’t think she could do without me.”
“She would be better if she came up to London oftener and had a fuller life,” returned Pauline, with decision. “Her ill health has always been mainly imaginary, Rose. When people have nothing else to do, they sink into invalidism. But you are making me lose my character as a hostess altogether. Let us take in the tea. Your aunt will wonder what we have been doing.”
But Miss Merivale had not noticed that the tea was a long time in making its appearance. She was still absorbed in anxious thought when the girls came in, and after a little while she managed to lead the conversation back to Clare and her typewriter.
“Mr. Powell suggested that we should have the programmes for the concert typewritten, Rose. He said it would be cheaper. Could you give me the address of Miss Sampson, Miss Smythe?”
“I shouldn’t advise you to employ her, Miss Merivale,” returned Pauline in a voice that had a sharp edge to it. For some reason or other, Clare’s assistant was evidently not a favourite of hers. “I don’t believe she knows her business properly. Lady Desborough’s sister picked her up for Clare.”
“I might try her. Could you give me her address, my dear?”
Pauline opened her eyes. It was utterly unlike Miss Merivale to be so persistent. “I am afraid I can’t, Miss Merivale. I know nothing whatever about her, except that she has just come from Australia with some relations who kept a small shop out there. It was foolish of Mrs. Metcalfe to send us such a person. There are so many ladies who would be glad to do the work.”
Miss Merivale had caught her breath sharply as Pauline mentioned Australia, but neither of the girls noticed her agitation. Rose had wandered to the window, and was looking with delight at the vast expanse of chimney-tops, and the little glimpse of the river, grey under the cold March sky. And Pauline was slowly stirring her tea, with her eyes cast down. She was thinking whether it would be wise to drop a hint about Rose’s unhappiness at Woodcote. She had just made up her mind to say a guarded word or two, when she found, to her sharp annoyance, that Miss Merivale’s mind was still running on Rhoda Sampson.
“She comes here three times a week, I think you said, my dear?” asked Miss Merivale in her gentle voice. “Does she come in the mornings? She has her meals here, perhaps?”