“I’ve thought of that,” replied the young girl. “We had better choose a name which would not clash—I mean, so that if you did call me ‘Phil’ by mistake, people would either not notice it or think you had interrupted yourself. What do you say to ‘Phillis’? It would do very well, I think?”
“I daresay it would,” said Mrs Headfort, with a curious kind of resignation in her voice.
“Of course it is a perfect name for a maid,” said Philippa, “if people didn’t always use surnames. But you can truthfully say, if any one remarks upon it, that you’ve known me all my life, though I’ve only lately entered your service.”
“I cannot go into any explanations of the kind, whatever people say, I warn you, Philippa. I haven’t the nerve for it. Even if my words were true, I should feel as if I were telling stories.”
“Oh, well, say nothing, then,” her sister replied, tranquilly. “On the whole it will be as well, or perhaps better. But now, Evey, we are getting near Crowminster, and I must go back to my own carriage. There’s only just one thing more I want to prepare you for.—Shut your eyes for a minute.”
Evey meekly obeyed; she was past the stage of any attempt at restiveness by this time.
“Now,” said Philippa, and Evelyn, looking up, gave a slight exclamation.
“Who would have thought it would change you so? Where in the world did you get them?”
The “it” and the “them” referred to a pair of bluish-tinted spectacles which Philippa had composedly donned.
“Aren’t they splendid?” she said. “Don’t you remember them? They’re a pair mamma had that summer ages ago, when she went to Switzerland with papa, to shade her eyes from the glare. Of course they’re only plain glass, and very dark blue ones wouldn’t have done; they look so like a disguise. At least, in all the sensational stories, they are always used for that. And real spectacles would have dazed me, for my sight’s as keen as—”