“Oh no, she will be down directly, and—if it’s not too cold, and—” she hesitated, for her faith was small in Trixie. “Would you like to go, dear?” she went on to Imogen, as she made her appearance.
“I have just told Florence I would go,” Imogen answered quietly. “I met her in the hall. She said she had undertaken to look after me. You know I can’t skate a bit, Trixie.”
“Promised Major Winchester to take care of her, you see,” whispered Mabella to Mrs Wentworth, with a smile. And for the life of her, Mrs Wentworth could not repress a certain self-consciousness in her “Perhaps so,” in reply.
How sardonic were Mabella’s inward chuckles of satisfaction!
“It is too good to be true almost, Trixie,” she told her semi-confidante that morning. “Revenged! I should think so, indeed—never was anything so neat in this world.”
But beyond this, not one word would she say.
And in spite of Imogen’s warnings and expressed misgivings, ere the day was many hours older, Miss Forsyth was pretty fairly in possession of all she wanted to know.
“She is so sympathising, and interested in Imogen,” thought Mrs Wentworth, “and I cannot tell what is absolutely untrue.”
But when after events had caused her to qualify Miss Forsyth’s character with very different adjectives, she found it impossible to recall any words of that astute young woman’s which, when repeated, could be fairly said to endorse or strengthen her own belief as to Major Winchester’s attitude towards Imogen. On the contrary, little phrases literally expressive of doubt or perplexity, though contradicted even while uttered by her tone and smile, returned to her memory.
“Of course, I cannot give an opinion, whatever I may think.”