“I thought you were hurt by Edward’s saying you were a duffer and a beginner.”
“Oh, my dear, you must think me a fool.” Bertha laughed hysterically. “It’s quite true that I’m a duffer. I tell you it’s only the weather. Why, if my feelings were hurt each time Eddie said a thing like that I should lead a miserable life.”
“I wish you’d let me send him up to you,” said Miss Glover, unconvinced.
“Good heavens! Why? See, I’m all right now.” She washed her eyes and passed the powder-puff over her face. “My dear, it was only the sun.”
With an effort she braced herself, and burst into a laugh joyful enough almost to deceive the Vicar’s sister.
“Now, we must go down, or Mrs. Branderton will complain more than ever of my bad manners.”
She put her arm round Miss Glover’s waist and ran her down the stairs to the mingled terror and amazement of that good creature. For the rest of the afternoon, though her eyes never rested on Edward, she was perfectly charming—in the highest spirits, chattering incessantly, laughing; every one noticed her good humour and commented upon her obvious felicity.
“It does one good to see a couple like that,” said General Hancock, “just as happy as the day is long.”
But the little scene had not escaped Miss Ley’s sharp eyes, and she noticed with agony that Miss Glover had gone to Bertha. She could not stop her, being at the moment in the toils of Mrs. Branderton.
“Oh, these good people are too officious! Why can’t she leave the girl alone to have it out with herself!”