“Charlotte!” exclaimed Jerry.
“Yes, it sounds awful, but you know what I mean. It makes it horrider of me to hate her, and I’m afraid I do. At least if she gets the German prize—the one he gives for composition at the end of the term—I shall.”
“Shall what?”
“Hate her,” said Charlotte, grimly.
Jerry said no more.
Had Claudia Meredon “everything?”
Charlotte would assuredly have thought so more firmly than ever had she seen her at the moment when she was thus speaking of her. She was driving up the Silverthorns avenue in the pretty pony-carriage which Lady Mildred had appropriated to her use. It was a chilly evening, and the rain had been falling by heavy fits and starts all day. Miss Meredon was well wrapped up, however, and she drove fast. Her cheeks were glowing with excitement, and even in that most unbecoming of attire, a waterproof cloak, she looked, as Charlotte had almost bitterly allowed, “lovely.” Her bright hair crept out in little wavy curls from under her black hat, her eyes were sparkling—she looked a picture of happiness.
“Don’t ring,” she said quickly to the groom, as she threw him the reins, “I’ll let myself in,” and she was out of the carriage and up the steps in a moment.
The great front door was fastened from within, but Claudia ran round the terrace to a side entrance which she knew she should find open. And without waiting to take off even her waterproof, she flew down a passage, across the large hall, and into a smaller one, on to which opened the drawing-room where Lady Mildred usually sat when alone.
“She cannot but be pleased,” thought the girl; “and if I am very quick, I may be able to write a word home to-night.”