"She is—dark and—pale," I replied, staring a little giddily out of the carriage at the sheep munching their way over the London grass.
"Dark and pale?" mused Mrs Monnerie. "Well, that goes nearer the bone, perhaps, than medals and certificates and that sort of thing. Still, a rather Jane Eyreish kind of governess, eh, Susan?"
Unfortunately I was acquainted with only one of the Miss Brontës, and that not Charlotte.
"Miss Bowater is immensely clever, Mrs Monnerie," I hurried on, "and extremely popular with—with the other mistresses, and that sort of thing. She's not a bit what you might guess from what you might suppose."
"Which means, I gather," commented Mrs Monnerie affably, "that Miss Bowater is the typical landlady's daughter. A perfect angel in—or out of—the house, eh, Miss Innocent?"
"No," said I, "I don't think Miss Bowater is an angel. She is so interesting, so herselfish, you know. She simply couldn't be happy at Miss Stebbings's—the school where she's teaching now. It's not salary, Mrs Monnerie, she is thinking of—just two nice children and their mother, that's all."
This vindication of Fanny left me uncomfortably hot; I continued to gaze fixedly into the green distances of the park.
Yet all was well. Mrs Monnerie appeared to be satisfied with my testimonial. "You shall give me her address, little Binbin; and we'll have a look at the young lady," she decided.
Yet I was none too happy at my success. Those familiar old friends of mine—motives—began worrying me. Would the change be really good for Fanny? Would it—and I had better confess that this troubled me the most—would it be really good for me? I wanted to help her; I wanted also to show her off. And what a joy it would be if she should change into the Fanny of my dreams. On the other hand, supposing she didn't On the whole, I rather dreaded the thought of her appearance at No. 2.
Susan followed me into my room. "Who is this Miss Bowater?" she inquired, "besides, I mean, being your landlady's daughter, and that kind of thing?"