“My darling,” said her mother, “I can scarcely imagine anything spoiling you. The spoiling would go deeper with Stasy than in the common sense of the word, for immediately people began to make less of her, she would be exaggeratedly embittered and cynical.”
“We must save her from that,” said Blanche eagerly; “and it is just what would happen. Still, mamma, I think we should let her have all the change and recreation possible, for she does work so hard—harder than she needs. She throws herself so intensely into whatever she is doing. She gets as flushed and nervous over a hat as if her life depended upon it.”
“It is even better when she is doing some lessons,” said Mrs Derwent, “and the classes will be beginning again soon. We must just take things as they come, Blanchie, and do our best.”
So a great part of the invitations that were sent to them was courteously declined on the plea of want of time, none being accepted save such as it was desirable for Stasy to take part in, and which did not involve the expense of long drives or of much loss of working hours.
One day early in October, “business”—to use Miss Halliday’s expression—“being rather slack just then,” Mrs Burgess made her appearance in a great state of excitement. She wanted some caps at once, as she was going off unexpectedly on a visit.
It was late in the afternoon. Blanche had persuaded her mother to go out for a little stroll. Miss Halliday, in her corner of the shop, had, to confess the truth, been indulging in a little nap, and Stasy, some lace-frilling in her hands, which she was working at in a rather perfunctory way, glancing between times at a story of thrilling incident in a volume lent her by the Enneslies, was feeling unusually restful and contented.
“I do hope no one else will come to-day,” she thought to herself. “It is nice to have a little breathing-time before the winter season begins, which Miss Halliday expects to be such a success.”
Suddenly the shop door opened. Miss Halliday started up, looking and feeling very guilty.
“Good-afternoon, Miss Halliday,” said Mrs Burgess, the new-comer. “Dear me, what a colour you are! I hope you’re not going to get apoplectic! Where is Miss Derwent? I must see her at once;” and she proceeded to explain the reason of her visit, and the urgency of her wants.
Now, Mrs Burgess’s caps were even more marvellous works of art than Lady Harriot’s bonnets. They had indeed set Stasy’s teeth on edge to such an extent that Blanche had taken them altogether into her own hands, especially since some over-plain-speaking of Stasy’s on the subject had gone very near to deeply offending the doctor’s wife.