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Chapter I. I Go to Styles
Hastings—MissMurdoch.”
CynthiaMurdochwasafresh-lookingyoungcreature,fulloflifeandvigour.ShetossedoffherlittleV.A.D.cap,andIadmiredthegreatloosewavesofherauburnhair,andthesmallnessandwhitenessofthehandsheheldouttoclaimhertea.Withdarkeyesandeyelashesshewouldhavebeenabeauty.
SheflungherselfdownonthegroundbesideJohn,andasIhandedheraplateofsandwichesshesmiledupatme.
“Sitdownhereonthegrass,do.It’seversomuchnicer.”
Idroppeddownobediently.
“YouworkatTadminster,don’tyou,MissMurdoch?”
Shenodded.
“Formysins.”
“Dotheybullyyou,then?”Iasked,smiling.
“Ishouldliketoseethem!”criedCynthiawithdignity.
“Ihavegotacousinwhoisnursing,”Iremarked.“Andsheisterrifiedof‘Sisters’.”
“Idon’twonder.Sistersare,youknow,Mr.Hastings.Theysimp-lyare!You’venoidea!ButI’mnotanurse,thankheaven,Iworkinthedispensary.”
“Howmanypeopledoyoupoison?”Iasked,smiling.
Cynthiasmiledtoo.
“Oh,hundreds!”shesaid.
“Cynthia,”calledMrs.Inglethorp,“doyouthinkyoucouldwriteafewnotesforme?”
“Certainly,AuntEmily.”
Shejumpeduppromptly,andsomethinginhermannerremindedmethatherpositionwasadependentone,andthatMrs.Inglethorp,kindasshemightbeinthemain,didnotallowhertoforgetit.
Myhostessturnedtome.
“Johnwillshowyouyourroom.Supperisathalf-pastseven.Wehavegivenuplatedinnerforsometimenow.
