“I hope that you would do that with me!”
“It is not quite the same class of happiness. It is a factory girls’ ‘Happy Evening.’”
Both laughed, and Bonnybell made a second and better grimace.
“Miss Sloggett is going to show them her magic lantern.”
“Miss Sloggett! What a name! Who is Miss Sloggett?”
“Oh, she is an old ass who does secretary and door-mat to—to—the friend I am staying with.”
After all, there were “points” in being able, for a whole hour, not to be “a nice girl.” Flora was a good sort, for she did not press her invitation, and without being asked—perhaps because she had not failed to perceive Bonnybell’s latent effort to conceal her hostess’s name—set her down at the corner of Hill Street, magnanimously refraining from any attempt to pry into what was so clearly meant to be hidden from her, though the motive for concealment could scarcely be a flattering one.
It was with a trembling hand that Bonnybell rang the bell—a project for compassing the possession of a latch-key flitting through her head—but she was quitte pour la peur. Though the church clock in South Audley Street had pointed to five minutes past two, Felicity had not missed her. She was soon—with a mind relieved at least from that portion of its load—giving a report, with excisions something like those practised on Russian newspapers, of her morning’s employment, and adorning it with touches, so nicely adapted to Felicity’s humour, that the latter ended by expressing an ecstatic wonder as to how she had ever managed to bear so long the absence from her side of such a seasoner and sweetener of her own toilsome existence. Her regret extended even to being unable—owing to another engagement—to be present at the “Happy Evening,” to which Bonnybell and Miss Sloggett proceeded in the brougham without her.
Bonnybell would have liked to be silent during the drive, ruminating over the additions made to her difficulties by the morning’s meeting, and the news it brought her. But poor Sloggett’s spirits were in a very tender condition, and asked for delicate handling. A nascent jealousy of herself, which amused Miss Ransome, coupled with deep misgivings as to her own capacity for the evening’s task, combined to overset the poor secretary.
“I trust there will be no contretemps! I trust it will all go well; but I have not much confidence in myself. I am only a beginner. I hope it will be all right.”