“Mrs. Smith’s out. But I was not obliged to tell you so. I’ll not spare you any work when you call me Miss Trot.”
The maid’s only answer was to leave the room: and the little girl—who spoke like a woman—shook her dark hair from her face in temper.
“I’ve told them over and over again I will not be called Miss Trot. How would you like it? Because my mamma took to say it when I was a baby, it is no reason why other people should say it.”
“Perhaps your mamma says it still, and so they fall into it also.”
“My mamma is dead.”
Just at the moment I did not take in the meaning of the words. “Mrs. Smith dead!”
“Mrs. Smith is not my mother. Don’t insult me, please. She came here as my governess. If papa chose to make a fool of himself by marrying her afterwards, it was not my fault. What are you looking at?”
I was looking at her: she seemed so strange a child; and feeling slightly puzzled between the other Mrs. Smith and this one. They say I am a muff at many things; I am sure I am at understanding complicated relationships.
“Then—Miss Chalk is—this Mrs. Smith’s sister?”
“Well, you might know that. They are a pair, and I don’t like either of them. There are two crying babies upstairs now.”