Ella looked far from pleased.
“Things must wait, not me,” she said imperiously. “Mamma always reads to me this minute.”
“Your mamma’s ill, Miss Ella; and when there’s illness in the house there’s plenty for everybody to do without wasting one’s time over nonsense.”
Ella’s face grew scarlet with anger.
“’Tisn’t nonsense,” she said; “I’m ill too. I’ve got a cold, and you should amoose me.”
But before Harvey had time to reply, except by a short laugh, the door opened, and both the occupants of the nursery looked round to see who was there. A young girl of thirteen or fourteen, but with something in her air and manner which made her seem older, came in quickly. She was tall and slight, and though very plainly dressed, one could not have passed her by without noticing her.
“Harvey,” she said, and her tone, though not ungentle, was cold and even a very little haughty, “how is Miss Ella to-day? Mrs St Quentin is very anxious about her.”
Harvey glanced round with a sort of affectation of indifference that was irritating.
“There’s not the least need in the world to be anxious, miss,” she said. “The child’s got a cold, like everybody else in this changeable weather. There was no need for her mamma to hear nothing about it.”
The girl looked at her still more severely.