But she worried over it a good deal, and Mrs. Weatherstone noticed it.
"Doesn't your pet club house go well, 'Miss Bell?' You seem troubled about something."
"I am," Diantha admitted. "I believe I'll have to tell you about it—but I hate to. Perhaps if you'll come and look I shan't have to say much."
She led her to a window that looked on the garden, the rich, vivid, flower-crowded garden of Southern California by the sea. Little Ilda, in a fresh black frock and snowy, frilly cap and apron, ran out to get a rose; and while she sniffed and dallied they saw Mr. Mathew saunter out and join her.
The girl was not as severe with him as she ought to have been—that was evident; but it was also evident that she was frightened and furious when he suddenly held her fast and kissed her with much satisfaction. As soon as her arms were free she gave him a slap that sounded smartly even at that distance; and ran crying into the house.
"She's foolish, I admit," said Diantha,—"but she doesn't realize her danger at all. I've tried to make her. And now I'm more worried than ever. It seems rather hard to discharge her—she needs care."
"I'll speak to that young man myself," said Mrs. Weatherstone. "I'll speak to his grandmother too!"
"O—would you?" urged Diantha. "She wouldn't believe anything except that the girl 'led him on'—you know that. But I have an idea that we could convince her—if you're willing to do something rather melodramatic—and I think we'd better do it to-night!"
"What's that?" asked her employer; and Diantha explained. It was melodramatic, but promised to be extremely convincing.
"Do you think he'd dare! under my roof?" hotly demanded Madam
Weatherstone.