“Bailey! Bailey!” she called, as she caught sight of her attendant at the other end of the room; “come quick. I want you to mend Miss Raynsworth’s skirt!”
The woman hastened towards the two girls; but as she drew near them a curious change came over her face, which had hitherto expressed only good-natured readiness to attend to her young lady’s summons. It grew hard and almost repellent in expression, with a look in the eyes of something so nearly approaching insolence that it made Philippa shudder. Yet Bailey was not a bad or vindictive woman. She was simply one of her class; perhaps specially prone, as Mrs Shepton had warned Philippa, to jealousy of any one younger or better-looking than herself, and, as a not unnatural result of this, to suspicion.
She smiled slightly as she addressed Aline, but the smile was not a pleasant one, and she seemed to avoid looking at Philippa, as if she wished to obtrude her ignoring of her.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said; “what is it I can do? Have you torn your dress?” and she glanced at Aline’s draperies with a kind of affectation of concern.
“No, no,” said the girl, impatiently, “didn’t you hear what I said? It is Miss Raynsworth’s dress that is torn, not mine. Get a needle and thread and mend it as quickly as you can.”
“Miss—Miss Ray’s dress?” said Bailey, slowly; “no, Miss Aline, I did not understand that Miss Ray was a friend of yours.”
And now, almost as if indifferent whether Miss Worthing noticed her extraordinary manner or not, she stared hard at Philippa, with the same half-impertinent, half-contemptuous smile on her face.
Philippa grew white; Aline grew red with shame.
“Bailey,” she said, indignantly, “what is the matter with you? Are you going out of your mind? Or have you been asleep and don’t know what you are saying?”
The maid in her turn reddened a little. She was evidently not accustomed to be spoken to so sharply, and it mortified her.