"What!" croaked Mrs Monnerie, "you, Miss Bowater! Guilty of that silly punctilio! She was merely humouring you, child. It will be a most valuable experience. You shall be perfectly protected. Pride, eh? Or is it jealousy? Now what would you say if I promise to try and ransom the poor creature?—buy her out? pension her off? Would that be a nice charitable little thing to do? She might make you quite a pleasant companion."
"Ah, Mrs Monnerie, please let me buy her out. Let me be the intermediary!" I found myself, hands clasped in lap, yearningly stooping towards her, just like a passionate young lady in a novel.
She replied ominously, knitting her thick, dark eyebrows. "And how's that to be done, pray, if you sulk here at home?"
"I think, Aunt Alice, it's an excellent plan," cried Susan, "much, much more considerate. She could write. Think of all those horrible people! The poor thing may have been kidnapped, forced to do her silly tricks like one of those wretched, little barbered-up French poodles. Anyhow, I don't suppose she's there—or anywhere else, for that matter—for fun!"
Even Susan's sympathy had its sting.
"Thank you, Susan," was Mrs Monnerie's acid retort. "Your delicate soul can always be counted on. But advice, my child, is much the more valuable when asked for."
"Of course I mustn't interfere, Mrs Monnerie," interposed Fanny sweetly; "but wouldn't it perhaps be as well for you to see the poor thing first? She mayn't be quite—quite a proper kind of person, may she? At least that's what the newspapers seem to suggest. Not, of course, that Miss M. wouldn't soon teach her better manners."
Mrs Monnerie's head wagged gently in time to her shoe. "H'm. There's something in that, Miss Worldly-Wise. Reports don't seem to flatter her. But still, I like my own way best. Poppet must come and see. After all, she should be the better judge."
Never before had Mrs Monnerie so closely resembled a puffed-out tawny owl.