"And to me, too, my dear child," Mrs. Carne hastened to assure her blandly. "But I always say what I think, you know."
Beth fixed her eyes on the clock absently.
When Dan came in to lunch that day, he seemed pleased to hear that Mrs. Carne had been.
"What had she to say for herself?" he asked.
"She said 'I always say what I think,'" Beth replied; "until it struck me that 'I always say what I think' is a person who only thinks disagreeable things."
"Well, I like her," said Dan; "and I always get on with her. If she's going to show up friendly at last, I hope you won't snub her. We can't afford to make enemies, according to your own account," he concluded significantly. "What do you think of her, Miss Petterick?" he added, by way of giving a pleasanter turn to the conversation. He and his patient always addressed each other with much formality. Beth asked him once in private why he was so stiff with Bertha, and he explained that he thought it wiser, as a medical man, not to be at all familiar; formality helped to keep up his authority.
"I have had no opportunity of thinking anything about her," Bertha rejoined. "She has never spoken to me. I have heard her speak, though, and like her voice. It's so cooing. She makes me think of a dove."
"And I shouldn't be surprised to find," said Beth, with cruel insight, "that, like the dove, she conceals a villainous disposition and murderous proclivities by charms of manner and a winning voice. What are you going to do this afternoon, Bertha?"
Bertha glanced at Dan. "I am going to read 'The Moonstone' out in the garden the whole afternoon," she replied.
"Then you won't mind if I disappear till tea-time?" said Beth. "I want to do some work upstairs."