Alice had lost some of her standing with Louise by saying to Miriam before departing, “I hope we shall see something of each other in the future, Miss Cread. I take it that you will be returning east this autumn.”
It was natural enough for Alice to “take it” that Miriam would be returning. But, in the light of that trifling episode during the dance, Louise felt that Alice’s express assumption of Miriam’s departure was almost a hint; and having learned to read Miriam’s countenance, she was almost sure that Miriam had felt the remark to be, if not a hint, at least a warning. And that Louise resented; for the fact that Alice had not been born athletic enough to strike out for herself gave her no right to curb the athleticism of others. And if it was a warning, and if Alice justified it to herself on the score of sisterly protection, then how did Alice justify her many sisterly neglects? Louise felt that if she had been in Alice’s place when Keble, sick of the war, had first struck out into the wilds, no power on earth could have prevented her from following at his heels to fry bacon over his camp fires. If she had had a brother she would have guarded and bullied and slaved for him with the single object of making him what Minnie Hopper as a little girl would have called “the champeen king of the circus.”
Whether Miriam’s continued sojourn was in the best interests of all concerned was another matter. Obviously Miriam, despite her protests, desired to stay. But that was none of Alice Eveley’s business. It was a matter for Miriam alone to decide, and she should not be hampered in her decision. In a sense it was Keble’s business too. Certainly not his wife’s, though long before Keble’s sister had appeared on the scene, Louise had sometimes arrested herself, as Alice had done, and chosen a different course in order not to break in on some apparent community of interest between her husband and Miriam Cread.
A perambulator appeared at the corner of the terrace, propelled by a stolid nursemaid. The monkey, rosy and fat, was making lunges at a white hillock in his coverings which he would have been surprised to know was his own foot. On seeing his mother he abandoned the hillock to give her a perky inspection. His bonnet had slid down over one eye, and the tip of his tongue protruded at the opposite corner of his mouth.
Louise broke into a laugh. “Katie! Make that child put in his tongue or else straighten his hat. He looks such an awful rake with both askew.”
Katie missed the fine point of the monkey’s resemblance to a garden implement, but, as Dare had recognized, Katie was as immortal in her ignorance as philosophers are in their erudition. She straightened the monkey’s headgear, this adjustment being less fraught with complications than an attempt to reinstate his tongue.
“His granpa and gramma come into the nursery before breakfast,” Katie proudly announced. “They said it was to give me a present, which they done,—but it was really to see the monkey again.”
Louise had risen and gone over to shake the white hillock, an operation which revived the monkey’s interest in that phenomenon.
“Any one would think he was their baby!” she said sharply.