them, Miss Rose could not resist the temptation to manage a situation.
“Your friend is trying to attract your attention,” she called out.
Iris turned and saw that her companion had discovered the last spare corner—a table wedged against the wall—and was reserving a place for herself. When she joined her, the little lady was looking round her with shining eyes.
“I ordered the tea for your nice friends,” she said. “Oh, isn’t all this
fun
?”
Her pleasure was so spontaneous and genuine that Iris could not condemn it as gush. She stared doubtfully at the faded old-gold plush window-curtains, the smutty tablecloth, the glass dish of cherry jam—and then she glanced at her companion.
She received a vague impression of a little puckered face; but there was a sparkle in the faded blue eyes, and an eager note in the voice, which suggested a girl.
Afterwards, when she was trying to collect evidence of what she believed must be an extraordinary conspiracy, it was this discrepancy between a youthful voice and a middle-aged spinster, which made her doubt her own senses. In any case, her recollection was far from clear, for she did not remember looking consciously at her companion again.
The sun was blazing in through the window, so that she shaded her eyes with one hand most of the time she was having tea. But as she listened to the flow of excited chatter, she had the feeling that she was being entertained by some one much younger than herself.
“Why do you like it?” she asked.
“Because it’s travel. We’re moving. Everything’s moving.”
Iris also had the impression that the whole scene was flickering like an early motion-picture. The waiters swung down the rocking carriage, balancing trays. Scraps of country flew past the window. Smuts rained down on the flakes of butter and the sticky cakes. Dusty motes quivered in the rays of the sun, and the china shook with every jerk of the engine.
As she tried to drink some tea before it was all shaken over the rim of her cup, she learned that her companion was an English governess—Miss Winifred Froy—and was on her way home for a holiday. It came as a shock of surprise to know that this adult lady actually possessed living parents.
“Pater and Mater say they can talk of nothing else but my return,” declared Miss Froy. “They’re as excited as children. And so is Sock.”
“Sock?” repeated Iris.
“Yes, short for Socrates. The Pater’s name for him. He is our dog. He’s an Old English sheep-dog—not pure—but
so
appealing. And he’s really devoted to me. Mater says he understands that I’m coming home, but not
when
. So the old duffer meets every train. And then the darling comes back, with his tail down, the picture of depression. Pater and Mater are looking forward to seeing his frantic joy the night I
do
come.”
“I’d love to see him,” murmured Iris.
The old parents’ happiness left her unmoved, but she was specially fond of dogs. She got a clear picture of Sock—a shaggy mongrel—absurdly clownish and overgrown, with amber eyes beaming under his wisps, and gambolling like a puppy in the joy of reunion.
Suddenly, Miss Froy broke off, at a recollection.
“Before I forget I want to explain why I did not back you up about the window. No wonder you thought I could not be English. It was
stuffy
—but I didn’t like to interfere, because of the baroness.”
“D’you mean the appalling black person?”
“Yes, the baroness. I’m under an obligation to her. There was a muddle about my place in the train. I’d booked second-class, but there wasn’t a seat left. So the baroness most kindly paid the difference, so that I could travel first-class, in her carriage.”
“Yet she doesn’t look kind,” murmured Iris.
“Perhaps she is rather overwhelming. But she’s a member of the family to which I had the honour of being governess. It’s not wise to mention names in public, but I was governess to the very highest in the
“Your friend is trying to attract your attention,” she called out.
Iris turned and saw that her companion had discovered the last spare corner—a table wedged against the wall—and was reserving a place for herself. When she joined her, the little lady was looking round her with shining eyes.
“I ordered the tea for your nice friends,” she said. “Oh, isn’t all this
fun
?”
Her pleasure was so spontaneous and genuine that Iris could not condemn it as gush. She stared doubtfully at the faded old-gold plush window-curtains, the smutty tablecloth, the glass dish of cherry jam—and then she glanced at her companion.
She received a vague impression of a little puckered face; but there was a sparkle in the faded blue eyes, and an eager note in the voice, which suggested a girl.
Afterwards, when she was trying to collect evidence of what she believed must be an extraordinary conspiracy, it was this discrepancy between a youthful voice and a middle-aged spinster, which made her doubt her own senses. In any case, her recollection was far from clear, for she did not remember looking consciously at her companion again.
The sun was blazing in through the window, so that she shaded her eyes with one hand most of the time she was having tea. But as she listened to the flow of excited chatter, she had the feeling that she was being entertained by some one much younger than herself.
“Why do you like it?” she asked.
“Because it’s travel. We’re moving. Everything’s moving.”
Iris also had the impression that the whole scene was flickering like an early motion-picture. The waiters swung down the rocking carriage, balancing trays. Scraps of country flew past the window. Smuts rained down on the flakes of butter and the sticky cakes. Dusty motes quivered in the rays of the sun, and the china shook with every jerk of the engine.
As she tried to drink some tea before it was all shaken over the rim of her cup, she learned that her companion was an English governess—Miss Winifred Froy—and was on her way home for a holiday. It came as a shock of surprise to know that this adult lady actually possessed living parents.
“Pater and Mater say they can talk of nothing else but my return,” declared Miss Froy. “They’re as excited as children. And so is Sock.”
“Sock?” repeated Iris.
“Yes, short for Socrates. The Pater’s name for him. He is our dog. He’s an Old English sheep-dog—not pure—but
so
appealing. And he’s really devoted to me. Mater says he understands that I’m coming home, but not
when
. So the old duffer meets every train. And then the darling comes back, with his tail down, the picture of depression. Pater and Mater are looking forward to seeing his frantic joy the night I
do
come.”
“I’d love to see him,” murmured Iris.
The old parents’ happiness left her unmoved, but she was specially fond of dogs. She got a clear picture of Sock—a shaggy mongrel—absurdly clownish and overgrown, with amber eyes beaming under his wisps, and gambolling like a puppy in the joy of reunion.
Suddenly, Miss Froy broke off, at a recollection.
“Before I forget I want to explain why I did not back you up about the window. No wonder you thought I could not be English. It was
stuffy
—but I didn’t like to interfere, because of the baroness.”
“D’you mean the appalling black person?”
“Yes, the baroness. I’m under an obligation to her. There was a muddle about my place in the train. I’d booked second-class, but there wasn’t a seat left. So the baroness most kindly paid the difference, so that I could travel first-class, in her carriage.”
“Yet she doesn’t look kind,” murmured Iris.
“Perhaps she is rather overwhelming. But she’s a member of the family to which I had the honour of being governess. It’s not wise to mention names in public, but I was governess to the very highest in the
Similar Books
