“Perhaps it is very rude of me to say it,” Florence said primly, for deep in her heart there was a great deal of primness, “but I can understand Mr. North wishing you to have a chaperon; you are very young to be left alone.”
“Oh yes, and very careless, I know that. And Mrs. Baines used to provoke me into shocking her. I could shock her so easily, and did—don’t you know how one loves power for good or ill over a human being?”
“No, I don’t,” Florence answered, a little stiffly.
“I do; I love it best of all things in the world, whether it leads me uphill or downhill. But I am intruding,” for she saw a set cold look coming over Florence’s face. “Let me tell you why I asked for you. I have been so embarrassed about Mrs. Baines. She gave us presents, and she bought all sorts of things: but she didn’t pay for them. These bills came, and the people wanted their money.” She pulled a little roll out of her pocket. “She probably forgot them, and I thought it would be better to pay them, especially as I owed her some money when she left which she would not take;” and she laughed out again, but there was the odd sound like fright in her voice. “They are from florists and all sorts of people.”
Florence looked over the bills quickly and almost guiltily. There were the pots of fern and the flowers that had been sent to her and the children after Aunt Anne’s first visit; and there were the roses with which she had triumphantly entered on the night of the dinner-party. “Oh, poor old lady!” she exclaimed sadly.
“They are paid,” Mrs. North said. “Don’t be distressed about them and many others—lace-handkerchiefs, shoes, all sorts of things. Don’t tell her. She would think I had taken a liberty or committed a solecism,” and she made a little wry face. “But what I really wanted to see you about, Mrs. Hibbert, was Madame Celestine’s bill. I am afraid I can’t manage that all by myself; it is too long. Madame Celestine, of course, is sweetly miserable, for she thinks the old lady has vanished into space. She came to me yesterday. It seems that she went to you a few days ago, but you were out, and she was glad of it when she discovered that Mrs. Baines was your aunt, for she doesn’t want to offend you. She came to me again to-day. She is very miserable. I believe it will turn her hair grey. Oh, it is too funny.”
“I don’t think it is at all funny.”
“But indeed it is, for I don’t believe Mrs. Baines will ever be able to pay the fifteen pounds; in fact, we know that she won’t. Probably it is worrying her a good deal. I have been wondering whether something could not be done; if you and I, for instance, were to arrange it between us.”
“You are very good, Mrs. North,” Florence said, against her will.
“Oh no, but I am sorry for her, and it vexes and worries me to think that she is annoyed. I want to get rid of that vexation, and will pay something to do so. That is what most generosity comes to,” Mrs. North went on, with mock cynicism, “the purchase of a pleasant feeling for one’s self, or the getting rid of an unpleasant one. There is little really unselfish goodness in the world, and when one meets it, as a rule, it isn’t charming, it isn’t fascinating; one feels that one would rather be without it.” She rose as she spoke. “Well,” she asked, “what shall we do? I’ll pay one half of the old lady’s bill if you will pay the other half.”