"There isn't much to tell." She interlaced her fingers round her
updrawn knees. Her grey eyes were turned to the sea, and Torps watched
her profile against the sky wistfully, studying the pure brow, the
threads of silver appearing here and there in her soft brown hair, the
strong, almost boyish lines of mouth and chin. _En profile_, thus, she
looked very like a handsome boy.
"I've been teaching at one of those training institutes for girls on
the East Coast. The principal, Miss Dacre is her name"--Margaret
paused as if expecting some comment from her companion: none
came--"Pauline Dacre; she was at school with mother: they were great
friends; and when mother died she offered me a home. . . . I had a
little money--enough to go through a course of training. I learned
things----"
"What sort of things?"
"Oh, cooking and laundry, and hygiene--domestic science it's called."
Torps nodded. "And then, when I knew enough to teach others, I went
to--to this place; I've been there ever since. And that's all. Now
it's your turn."
Torps studied the traces of overwork and strain which showed in the
faintly accentuated cheekbones and which painted little tired shadows
about her eyelids.
"No, it's not all. Why have you come down here?"
"I--I----" She coloured as if accused. "I got a little run down . . .
that was all. But I've saved some money; I can afford a rest. I'm
what is called 'an independent gentlewoman of leisure' for a while."
She laughed, a gay little laugh.
"Do you mean you are going back there again?"