So said the tall and gentle-voiced housekeeper, Mrs. Bird, whose emotions had been, in Miss Marvell's view, so unnecessarily exercised on the evening of Delia's home-coming. Being a sensitive person, Mrs. Bird had already learnt her lesson, and her manner had now become as mildly distant as could be desired, especially in the case of Miss Blanchflower's lady companion.
"People? What people?" asked Delia, looking round with a furrowed brow. She and Gertrude were sitting together on the sofa when the housekeeper entered, eagerly reading a large batch of letters which the London post had just brought, and discussing their contents in subdued tones.
"It's the cottages, Miss. Her Ladyship used always to decide who should have those as were vacant about this time of year, and two or three of these persons have been up several times to know when you'd be home."
"But I don't know anything about it"—said Delia, rising reluctantly.
"Why doesn't the agent—why doesn't Mr. Frost do it?"
"I suppose—they thought—you'd perhaps speak a word to Mr. Frost, Miss," suggested Mrs. Bird. "But I can send them away of course, if you wish."
"Oh no, I'll come"—said Delia. "But it's rather tiresome—just as"—she looked at Gertrude.
"Don't be long," said Miss Marvell, sharply, "I'll wait for you here." And she plunged back into the letters, her delicate face all alive, her eyes sparkling. Delia departed—evidently on a distasteful errand.
But twenty minutes later, she returned flushed and animated.
"I am glad I went! Such tyranny—such monstrous tyranny!" She stood in front of Gertrude breathing fast, her hands on her hips.
"What's the matter?"