“It is called the head,” I answered, “but it is not. Isn’t it strange how often a thing is not what it is called? But I suppose you do not have to teach anything about clams.”
“Teach about clams!” she said, puzzled for an instant. Then she seemed to be amused. “No, I don’t. It’s lucky, isn’t it? For I don’t know anything about them. May I take one of them?”
“It will drip on your dress and spot it,” I said warningly.
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. And she took a clam in her hand, and the water dripped upon her dress, as I had said, and it made a spot. She could not see it then, but I knew how it would look in the morning. She was a most careless, heedless governess.
“Of course it matters,” I said, reproving. “You will see. Surely they don’t give you all the gowns you want, to spot with salt water.”
She was puzzled again. “All the gowns I want?” she asked, wondering. “What do you mean?”
“Up at the great house,” I said, “at Good—Mr. Goodwin’s.”
The governess smiled, a merry smile that filled her eyes with light. For she was looking up at me then. And I looked deep into those eyes until her face was the color of her hair.
“Oh, yes,” she said, looking down,—and I was sorry, for on a sudden it seemed dark,—“oh, yes, they are very good to me—in the matter of gowns. But I will be careful if you think I ought.”
“I know you ought,” I said. “Waste is wicked.”