“I don’t feel it that way,” said Stasy eagerly.
“You are hardly old enough to realise it,” said her sister.
“Yes, I think I do,” said Stasy; “but it seems to me that anything would be better than being separated—being governesses or companions, or anything like that. What would mamma do without us?”
“Mr Mapleson proposed our beginning a small school,” said Blanche.
Stasy made a face.
“Oh, that would be quite horrid, I think. We should be far more independent if we were milliners. And do you know, Blanchie,” she went on, her eyes sparkling, “it’s quite different nowadays in England. Miss Milward has a cousin who’s a milliner in London, and people don’t look down upon her for it in the very least. Not even regular—worldly sort of people, you know.”
“I’ve heard of that,” Blanche replied; “but in London it’s different. Miss Milwards cousin probably has her own friends and relations who know her and back her up. It wouldn’t be the same thing at all in a little country town, and in a neighbourhood where people have not been too kind to us as it is. And living ‘on the premises,’ as people say—oh no, it would be quite different.”
Stasy’s face fell.
“I was afraid,” she said, rather dejectedly, “that you wouldn’t like the idea of it at all. But, oh Blanchie, a school would be detestable! We should never feel free, morning, noon, or night; and just fancy mamma having to hear all sorts of horrid fault-findings from vulgar parents.”
“They needn’t be vulgar,” remarked Blanche; “at least not all of them.”