“What is the matter with that child?” Florence asked sternly. “I was writing in the library just now, and she came rushing in. She pretended she was looking for a book when she saw me, but I am almost sure she was crying.”
“She is such an idiot—” began Trixie, but a warning glance from Mab stopped her.
“Do you wish Florence to take her up and spoil all?” she said afterwards.
“I mean,” Beatrix went on, “she takes things up so. I couldn’t help laughing at the way Mr Villars scolded her.”
“You don’t want to frighten her out of it now at the last?” said Florence. “It would be very awkward, and might get you into hot water, I warn you.”
She had an additional motive for not desiring such a catastrophe. No one, she knew, failing Miss Wentworth, could take the “Valesca” but herself, and this, Florence was by no means inclined to do. It was the part which faintly shadowed her own story—the devotion of a girl to an unworthy object. So with these words of remonstrance to Trixie, Florence went her way.
Her way was to seek for Rex, and enlist his help. She found him writing in her brother’s smoking-room.
“Rex,” she said abruptly, “I’m afraid you are not looking after your Miss Wentworth after all. She’s in a sea of troubles about her acting, and I cannot meddle. For one thing I can’t and won’t take ‘Valesca,’ if she throws it up,” and she crimsoned as she said it.
“Nobody could propose such a thing,” he said.
“Wouldn’t they? I would rather not risk it. But you know something about acting; quite as much as Mr Villars, I believe, only you are not so exaggerated and affected; couldn’t you coach Miss Wentworth a little? You see I don’t hide that my motives in seeking you are half, or more than half, selfish ones.”