“To me it is like a personal misfortune,” said Mrs. Monteagle. “And to think of their not sending for me at once! How did M. de Kerbec hear it, do you know? But I tell you there is some mistake; I feel certain there is. Those poor, dear girls! It is heartbreaking to think of them if this be true. And the boys—what is to become of them?”
“Boys always pull through somehow,” said Mme. Léopold. “It is the girls that my heart bleeds for. I suppose they will have to go out as governesses—Pearl at least. Polly’s beauty would make it impossible for her to do anything; no family would run the risk of letting that face in amongst them.”
“They shall never be asked to run the risk so long as I can prevent it,” said Mrs. Monteagle with a touch of her old asperity. “While I have a home those children have one.”
“That is real friendship; it consoles me wonderfully to hear you say so, chère madame.”
Mrs. Monteagle made no answer. She was speculating on the possible truth of this story of sudden ruin, and it occurred to her how mysterious Mr. Kingspring had been on the subject of Mrs. Redacre’s not receiving the day before.
“I will go down the moment I am dressed,” she said. “I can’t lose an hour till I know the truth.”
Mme. Léopold rose to go.
“Have you breakfasted, or will you stay and have a cup of tea with me?” said Mrs. Monteagle.
“Thank you; I had my coffee before I came out. You will not mention that I have been here? They think at home that I am gone to see my poor people; I always go early, because then they do not interfere with my day.”
Mrs. Monteagle hurried through her breakfast and went down to the entresol. She was admitted at once.