“I don’t think, begging your pardon, Miss Deveen, that it is quite a proper subject for young people,” struck in Cattledon, drawing up her thin red neck.
“Dear me, no,” replied Miss Deveen, still laughing a little. And the subject dropped, and we finished luncheon.
The rain had come on, a regular downpour. We went into the breakfast-room: though why it was called that, I don’t know, since breakfast was never taken there. It was a fair-sized, square room, built out at the back, and gained by a few stairs down from the hall and a passage. Somehow people prefer plain rooms to grand ones for everyday use: perhaps that was why we all took a liking to this room, for it was plain enough. An old carpet on the floor, chairs covered with tumbled chintz, and always a good blazing fire in the grate. Miss Deveen would go in there to write her business letters—when she had any to write; or to cut out sewing with Cattledon for the housemaids. An old-fashioned secretary stood against the wall, in which receipts and other papers were kept. The French window opened to the garden.
“Pour, pour, pour! It’s going to be wet for the rest of the day,” said Tod gloomily.
Cattledon came in, equipped for church in a long brown cloak, a pair of clogs in her hand. Did none of us intend to go, she asked. Nobody answered. The weather outside was not tempting.
“You must come, Janet Carey,” she said very tartly, angry with us all, I expect. “Go and put on your things.”
“No,” interposed Miss Deveen. “It would not be prudent for your niece to venture out in this rain, Jemima.”
“The church is only over the way.”
“But consider the illness she has only just recovered from. Let her stay indoors.”
Cattledon went off without further opposition, Janet kneeling down unasked, to put on her clogs, and then opening her umbrella for her in the hall. Janet did not come in again. Miss Deveen went out to sit with a sick neighbour: so we were alone.