“Soured by a hopeless passion,” she said to herself. “And the object is—my son.”
CHAPTER XI.
On entering the Zoological Gardens, Ovid turned at once to the right, leading Carmina to the aviaries, so that she might begin by seeing the birds. Miss Minerva, with Maria in dutiful attendance, followed them. Teresa kept at a little distance behind; and Zo took her own erratic course, now attaching herself to one member of the little party, and now to another.
When they reached the aviaries the order of march became confused; differences in the birds made their appeal to differences in the taste of the visitors. Insatiably eager for useful information, that prize-pupil Maria held her governess captive at one cage; while Zo darted away towards another, out of reach of discipline, and good Teresa volunteered to bring her back. For a minute, Ovid and his cousin were left alone. He might have taken a lover’s advantage even of that small opportunity. But Carmina had something to say to him—and Carmina spoke first.
“Has Miss Minerva been your mother’s governess for a long time?” she inquired.
“For some years,” Ovid replied. “Will you let me put a question on my side? Why do you ask?”
Carmina hesitated—and answered in a whisper, “She looks ill-tempered.”
“She is ill-tempered,” Ovid confessed. “I suspect,” he added with a smile, “you don’t like Miss Minerva.”
Carmina attempted no denial; her excuse was a woman’s excuse all over: “She doesn’t like me.”