"What!" croaked Mrs Monnerie, "you, Miss Bowater! Guilty of that silly
punctilio! She was merely humouring you, child. It will be a most
valuable experience. You shall be perfectly protected. Pride, eh? Or is
it jealousy? Now what would you say if I promise to try and ransom the
poor creature?--buy her out? pension her off? Would _that_ be a nice
charitable little thing to do? She might make you quite a pleasant
companion."
"Ah, Mrs Monnerie, please let _me_ buy her out. Let me be the
intermediary!" I found myself, hands clasped in lap, yearningly stooping
towards her, just like a passionate young lady in a novel.
She replied ominously, knitting her thick, dark eyebrows. "And how's
that to be done, pray, if you sulk here at home?"
"I think, Aunt Alice, it's an excellent plan," cried Susan, "much, much
more considerate. She could write. Think of all those horrible people!
The poor thing may have been kidnapped, forced to do her silly tricks
like one of those wretched, little barbered-up French poodles. Anyhow, I
don't suppose she's there--or anywhere else, for that matter--for
_fun_!"
Even Susan's sympathy had its sting.
"Thank you, Susan," was Mrs Monnerie's acid retort. "_Your_ delicate
soul can always be counted on. But advice, my child, is much the more
valuable when asked for."
"Of course I mustn't interfere, Mrs Monnerie," interposed Fanny sweetly;
"but wouldn't it perhaps be as well for you to see the poor thing first?
She mayn't be quite--quite a proper kind of person, may she? At least
that's what the newspapers seem to suggest. Not, of course, that Miss M.
wouldn't soon teach her better manners."
Mrs Monnerie's head wagged gently in time to her shoe. "H'm. There's
something in that, Miss Worldly-Wise. Reports don't seem to flatter her.
But still, I like my own way best. Poppet must _come and see_. After
all, she should be the better judge."
Never before had Mrs Monnerie so closely resembled a puffed-out tawny
owl.
I looked at her fixedly: shook my head. "No: no judge," I spluttered.
"I'm sorry, Mrs Monnerie, but I _won't_ go."
There was no misdoubting her anger now. The brows forked. The
loose-skinned hands twitched. She lifted herself in her chair,
"_Won't_," she said. "You vex me, child. And pray don't wriggle at me in
that hysterical fashion. You are beside yourself; trembling like a
mouse. You have been mooning alone too much, I can see. Run away and
nurse that silly head, and at the same time thank heaven that you have
more time and less need of the luxury than some one else we know of. It
may be a low life, but it needs courage. I'll say _that_ for her."
She swept her hands to her knees over her silken lap, and turned upon
Susan.