“Isn't it perfectly exquisite!” said Miss Amelia, who usually picked up the bald details of her sister's conversation and passed them on embroidered with a bit of style.
“It's not bad,” said Mr. Dyce, blinking at them, wondering what ailed the dears to-day. They were looking uneasily around them for some way of escape; he could almost hear the thump of their hearts, he noted the stress of their breathing. Miss Jean's eyes fastened on the tree-tops over the banker's garden-wall; he felt that in a moment she would spread out her wings and fly. “You have opened the school again,” he said, simply.
“We started again to-day,” cooed Miss Jean.
“Yes, we resumed to-day,” said Miss Amelia. “The common round, the daily task. And, oh! Mr. Dyce—”
She stopped suddenly at the pressure of her sister's elbow on her own, and lowered her eyes, that had for a second shown an appalling area of white. It was plain they were going to fly. Mr. Dyce felt inclined to cry “Pease, pease!” and keep them a little longer.
“You have my niece with you to-day?” he remarked. “What do you think of her?”
A look of terror exchanged between them escaped his observation.
“She's—she's a wonderful child,” said Miss Jean, nervously twisting the strings of a hand-bag.
“A singularly interesting and—and unexpected creature,” said Miss Amelia.
“Fairly bright, eh?” said Mr. Dyce.