“No; I’m not ill,” she said. “A night without sleep; a perverse child to teach in the morning; and a detestable temper at all times—that’s what is the matter with me.” She looked at Carmina. “You seem to be wonderfully better to-day. Has stupid Mr. Null really done you some good at last?” She noticed the open writing-desk, and discovered the letter. “Or is it good news?”
“I have heard from Ovid,” Carmina answered. The photograph was still in her hand; but her inbred delicacy of feeling kept the portrait hidden.
The governess’s sallow complexion turned little by little to a dull greyish white. Her hands, loosely clasped in her lap, tightened when she heard Ovid’s name. That slight movement over, she stirred no more. After waiting a little, Carmina ventured to speak. “Frances,” she said, “you have not shaken hands with me yet.” Miss Minerva slowly looked up, keeping her hands still clasped on her lap.
“When is he coming back?” she asked. It was said quietly.
Carmina quietly replied, “Not yet—I am sorry to say.”
“I am sorry too.”
“It’s good of you, Frances, to say that.”
“No: it’s not good of me. I’m thinking of myself—not of you.” She suddenly lowered her tone. “I wish you were married to him,” she said.
There was a pause. Miss Minerva was the first to speak again.
“Do you understand me?” she asked.