“Now you are beyond me, Miss Challoner. In a matter of detail, a man, even a parson, is often at fault. Is there no other way of managing this odious business? Forgive me; the word slipped out by accident! Could you not do the fitting, or whatever you call it, by daylight, and stay at home quietly in the evening like other young ladies?”
“Of course not,” returned Phillis, promptly. She had not the least idea why it could not be done; indeed, if she had been perfectly cool—which she was not, for Mrs. Cheyne had decidedly stroked her the wrong way and ruffled her past endurance—she would have appreciated the temperate counsel vouchsafed her, and acquiesced in it without a murmur; but now she seemed bent on contradiction.
“Our opinions seem to clash to-night,” returned Mr. Drummond, good-humoredly, but feeling that the young lady beside him had decidedly a will of her own. “She is very nice, but she is not as gentle as her sister,” he said to himself; which was hard on Phillis, who, though she was not meek, being a girl of spirit, was wholesomely sweet and sound to the heart’s core.
“One may be supposed to know one’s business best,” she replied rather dryly to this. And then, fearing that she might seem ungracious to a stranger, who did not know her and her little ways, she went on in a more cordial tone: “I am afraid you think me a little cross to-night; but I have been having a stand-up fight, and am rather tired. Trying to battle against other people’s prejudices makes one irritable. And then, because I am down and out of heart about things, our clergyman thinks fit to lecture me on propriety.”
“Only for your good. You must forgive me if I have taken too much upon myself,” returned Mr. Drummond, with much compunction. “You seem so lonely,—no father or brother; at least—pardon me—I believe you have no brother?” 153
“Oh, no; we have no brother,” sighed Phillis. Their acquaintance was in too early a stage to warrant her in bringing in Dick’s name. Besides, that sort of heterogeneous relationship is so easily misconstrued. And then she added, “I see. You meant to be very kind, and I was very ungrateful.”
“I only wish I could find some way of helping you all,” was his reply to this. But it was said with such frank kindness that Phillis’s brief haughtiness vanished. They were standing at the gate of the Friary by this time; but Mr. Drummond still lingered. It was Phillis who dismissed him.
“Good-night, and many thanks,” she said, brightly. “It is too late to ask you in, for you see, even dressmakers have their notions of propriety.” And as she uttered this malicious little speech, the young man broke into a laugh that was heard by Dorothy in her little kitchen.
“Oh, that is too bad of you, Miss Challoner,” he said, as soon as he recovered himself; but, nevertheless, he liked the girl better for her little joke.
Mr. Drummond’s constitutional had lasted so long that Mattie grew quite frightened, and came down in her drab dressing-gown to wait for him. It was not a becoming costume, but it was warm and comfortable; but then Mattie never considered what became her. If any one had admired her, or cared how she looked or what she wore, or had taken an interest in her for her own sake, she would doubtless have developed an honest liking for pretty things. But what did it matter under the present circumstances? Mr. Drummond was lighting his chamber candle when Mattie rushed out on him,—a grotesque little figure, all capes and frills.