Mrs. Baines looked almost alarmed and very angry.
“It was most presumptuous of her,” she exclaimed.
“But I don’t understand; why should it be presumptuous?” Florence asked, astonished.
“She had no right; she had not my permission.”
“But, dear Aunt Anne, she came to see you; and why should it be presumptuous?”
“I should prefer not to discuss the subject. I have expressed my opinion, and that is sufficient,” Mrs. Baines said haughtily. “I repeat that it was most presumptuous of her, under the circumstances, to call upon you—a liberty, a—Florence,” she went on, with sudden alarm in her voice, “I hope you did not promise to go and see her.”
“She never asked me.”
“I should have put my veto on it if she had. My dear, you must trust to my mature judgment in some things. I know the world better than you do. Believe me, I have my reasons for every word I say. I treated Mrs. North with the greatest clemency and consideration, though she frequently forgot not only what was due to herself, but what was due to me. I was blind while I stayed with her, Florence, and did not see many things that I do now; for I am not prone to think ill of any one. You know that, my love, do you not? I must beg that you will never, on any account, mention Mrs. North’s name again in my presence.”
Florence felt as if the envelope would burn a hole in her pocket. It was impossible to deliver it now. Perhaps, after all, the wisest way would be to say nothing about it. She had an idea that Aunt Anne frequently forgot all about her bills as soon as she had come to the conclusion that it was impossible to make them any longer. She searched about in her mind for some other topic of conversation. It was often difficult to find a subject to converse upon with Aunt Anne, for the old lady never suggested one herself, and except of past experiences and old-world recollections she seldom seemed sufficiently interested to talk much. Happily as it seemed for the moment, Jane entered with the housekeeping books. They were always brought in on a Tuesday, and paid on a Wednesday morning. Florence was very particular on this point. They usually gave her a bad half-hour, for she could never contrive to keep them down as much as she desired. That week, however, she reflected that they could not be very bad; besides, she had left four pounds with Aunt Anne, which must be almost intact, unless the drives had been paid out of them; but even then there would be plenty left to more than cover the books. The prospect of getting through her accounts easily cheered her, and she thought that she would set about them at once.
“They are heavy this week, ma’am,” Jane said, not without a trace of triumph in her voice, “on account of the chickens and the cream and the company.”