"I know she got one hundred and fifty pounds, and lived with them. One hundred pounds seems absurd."
"That's what father said when he apologised to me."
"But surely, all—all the people one sees aren't paid at that rate! Why, some cooks get a thousand—I've heard that for a fact——"
"Some don't," came from the other pillow.
"Well, some do, and if you strike an average, or whatever it's called——"
But Richenda interrupted, softly and wearily:
"Oh, you don't, don't, don't know."
Louie asked further questions. She frowned, puzzled, at the answers. Of course Richenda herself wasn't a very effective sort of girl; if anybody had to be downtrodden it would very likely be she; but the things she was telling her now (Richenda had begun to talk again, resignedly rather than bitterly) were preposterous. There must be something wrong with Richenda, probably with her Weston too; she did not look quite right; she was very different from the rosy housemaids at Trant, for example. One hundred pounds a year!... She had forgotten all about Roy. When, presently, Richenda came as near to putting a question about him as she dared, she forgot about him again. One hundred pounds a year!... She lay on her back, her knees up, her hands behind her head, her sleeves fallen from her wonderful arms, the brows above the grey eyes knitted. She was sure that she could do better than that! She even went so far as to say so. Richenda showed no resentment.
"You've got Lord Moone behind you," she said.
"I've got a prizefighter and a public-house behind me," Louie replied.