“Of course not, Miss Neily.” Lizzie’s face was a study in injured virtue. “Miss Dale took the call in her own room and shut the door.”
“And you were outside the door?”
“Where else would I be dustin’ that time in the mornin’?” said Lizzie fiercely. “But it’s yourself knows well enough the doors in this house is thick and not a sound goes past them.”
“I should hope not,” said Miss Cornelia rebukingly. “But—tell me, Lizzie, did Miss Dale seem—well—this morning?”
“That she did not,” said Lizzie promptly. “When she came down to breakfast, after the call, she looked like a ghost. I made her the eggs she likes, too—but she wouldn’t eat ’em.”
“H’m,” Miss Cornelia pondered. “I’m sorry if—well, Lizzie, we mustn’t meddle in Miss Dale’s affairs.”
“No, ma’am.”
“But—did she say when she would be back?”
“Yes, Miss Neily. On the two o’clock train. Oh, and I was almost forgettin’—she told me to tell you, particular—she said while she was in the city she’d be after engagin’ the gardener you spoke of.”
“The gardener? Oh, yes—I spoke to her about that the other night. The place is beginning to look run down—so many flowers to attend to. Well—that’s very kind of Miss Dale.”