Carmina called her to the sofa, and tried to find out who this second angry person might be. “Oh, you know!” Zo answered doggedly. “She rapped my knuckles. I call her a Beast.”
“Hush! you mustn’t talk in that way.”
“She’ll be here directly,” Zo proceeded. “You look out! She’d rap your knuckles—only you’re too big. If it wasn’t raining, I’d run away.” Carmina assumed an air of severity, and entered a serious protest adapted to her young friend’s intelligence. She might as well have spoken in a foreign language. Zo had another reason to give, besides the rap on the knuckles, for running away.
“I say!” she resumed—“you know the boy?”
“What boy, dear?”
“He comes round sometimes. He’s got a hurdy-gurdy. He’s got a monkey. He grins. He says, Aha—gimmee—haypenny. I mean to go to that boy!”
As a confession of Zo’s first love, this was irresistible. Carmina burst out laughing. Zo indignantly claimed a hearing. “I haven’t done yet!” she burst out. “The boy dances. Like this.” She cocked her head, and slapped her thigh, and imitated the boy. “And sometimes he sings!” she cried with another outburst of admiration.
“Yah-yah-yah-bellah-vitah-yah! That’s Italian, Carmina.” The door opened again while the performer was in full vigour—and Miss Minerva appeared.
When she entered the room, Carmina at once saw that Zo had correctly observed her governess. Miss Minerva’s heavy eyebrows lowered; her lips were pale; her head was held angrily erect, “Carmina!” she said sharply, “you shouldn’t encourage that child.” She turned round, in search of the truant pupil. Incurably stupid at her lessons, Zo’s mind had its gleams of intelligence, in a state of liberty. One of those gleams had shone propitiously, and had lighted her out of the room.
Miss Minerva took a chair: she dropped into it like a person worn out with fatigue. Carmina spoke to her gently. Words of sympathy were thrown away on that self-tormenting nature.