about you, Miss Dashwood?’
Margaret offered a little dish.
‘Oh, no, thank you.’ Then Cassandra blushed, feeling the child’s eyes on her, to see how she would take the teasing.
‘I think Sophy should show you round,’ Margaret suggested. ‘Then you will get to know one another.’
‘But Miss Dashwood is tired. Sitting in a train is so very fatiguing.’
‘No, I should like to do that, if Sophy would like it, too.’
They all thought she was not starting off as she must go on. Sophy’s expression, as she stood up, meant obviously that whether she liked it or not had no significance.
‘Well, it will be a breath of fresh air,’ said Aunt Tinty, with all the reverence of an indoor sort of person for the open air.
‘She is prim,’ said Margaret, when she was alone with her mother.
‘No. She is shy. And she is young. You should not speak harshly of Marion in front of her. After all, you live here …’
‘No, I am staying here … there is a difference.’
‘If you are a guest then your sarcasm is all the more awkward.’
‘How can I be a guest when I pay him thirty-five shillings a week?’
‘And, then, he
is
her employer. If she cannot respect him it will be very wretched for all of us.’
‘We are in for a thin time, then,’ said her daughter.
‘Indoors or out?’ Sophy asked sullenly, out in the hall. She put her arms out stiffly from her body and spun round; then as if that had been her last spurt of energy, she flagged suddenly, cast herself down on a settle and began to chew the end of a pigtail.
‘Indoors first,’ said Cassandra, knowing she must take a strong line. ‘Then,’ she continued, ‘if it has stopped raining and we are not too tired, we can walk round the garden.’
The eyes measured her, the pigtail was flipped back over a shoulder and the child jerked herself to her feet. ‘Come on then,’ she said ungraciously, and they began their tour of the vast, decaying place which was an examination of one another rather than an inspection of the house.
‘The library!’ Sophy began, standing with her back to the opened door, displaying the rows of calf and gilt. ‘There is a priest’s-hole in the side of the fireplace,’ she added, as if she had done this job before. She even led the way forward, but the smell of dampish soot repelled her. Cassandra took down a book and glanced through it, which, on account of her upbringing, she could not help doing.
‘Awake therefore that gentle paffion in every fwain: for, lo! adorned with all the charms in which Nature can array her; bedecked with beauty, youth, fprightlinefs, innocence, modefty and tendernefs breathing fweetnefs from her rofy lips, and darting brightnefs from her fparkling eyes …’
‘Those books smell horrible,’ said Sophy.
Cassandra raised it to her face. ‘It’s a sweet, dusty smell.’
‘It turns my stomach over,’ said Sophy. ‘Like going to church.’
Cassandra put the book back and followed Sophy along the corridors and up little staircases. Sometimes the child opened doors and made announcements. They came to the schoolroom, which was no cosy, shabby place with fireguard and cuckoo-clock. Cassandra could find nothing there more childish than an exercise book and
Caesar’s Gallic War
lying on the table. She fluttered the pages as Sophy went to the window, and was a little relieved to see Caesar’s profile made less austere by inked-in spectacles and moustache.
‘It is only a cat,’ Sophy was saying, bowed secretively over something on the window-seat. ‘It is only an ill cat.’
‘Your cat?’
The creature sneezed and Cassandra came to see. The little black face ran with tears, the creamy fur on the back clung together, as if with sweat. ‘A Siamese?’
Sophy said nothing, swung a foot carelessly, looked out of the window.
‘It is only a kitten,’ said Cassandra.
Then with sudden anguish, Sophy asked: ‘I think it is dying?’ And her voice wavered and dropped, and she
Margaret offered a little dish.
‘Oh, no, thank you.’ Then Cassandra blushed, feeling the child’s eyes on her, to see how she would take the teasing.
‘I think Sophy should show you round,’ Margaret suggested. ‘Then you will get to know one another.’
‘But Miss Dashwood is tired. Sitting in a train is so very fatiguing.’
‘No, I should like to do that, if Sophy would like it, too.’
They all thought she was not starting off as she must go on. Sophy’s expression, as she stood up, meant obviously that whether she liked it or not had no significance.
‘Well, it will be a breath of fresh air,’ said Aunt Tinty, with all the reverence of an indoor sort of person for the open air.
‘She is prim,’ said Margaret, when she was alone with her mother.
‘No. She is shy. And she is young. You should not speak harshly of Marion in front of her. After all, you live here …’
‘No, I am staying here … there is a difference.’
‘If you are a guest then your sarcasm is all the more awkward.’
‘How can I be a guest when I pay him thirty-five shillings a week?’
‘And, then, he
is
her employer. If she cannot respect him it will be very wretched for all of us.’
‘We are in for a thin time, then,’ said her daughter.
‘Indoors or out?’ Sophy asked sullenly, out in the hall. She put her arms out stiffly from her body and spun round; then as if that had been her last spurt of energy, she flagged suddenly, cast herself down on a settle and began to chew the end of a pigtail.
‘Indoors first,’ said Cassandra, knowing she must take a strong line. ‘Then,’ she continued, ‘if it has stopped raining and we are not too tired, we can walk round the garden.’
The eyes measured her, the pigtail was flipped back over a shoulder and the child jerked herself to her feet. ‘Come on then,’ she said ungraciously, and they began their tour of the vast, decaying place which was an examination of one another rather than an inspection of the house.
‘The library!’ Sophy began, standing with her back to the opened door, displaying the rows of calf and gilt. ‘There is a priest’s-hole in the side of the fireplace,’ she added, as if she had done this job before. She even led the way forward, but the smell of dampish soot repelled her. Cassandra took down a book and glanced through it, which, on account of her upbringing, she could not help doing.
‘Awake therefore that gentle paffion in every fwain: for, lo! adorned with all the charms in which Nature can array her; bedecked with beauty, youth, fprightlinefs, innocence, modefty and tendernefs breathing fweetnefs from her rofy lips, and darting brightnefs from her fparkling eyes …’
‘Those books smell horrible,’ said Sophy.
Cassandra raised it to her face. ‘It’s a sweet, dusty smell.’
‘It turns my stomach over,’ said Sophy. ‘Like going to church.’
Cassandra put the book back and followed Sophy along the corridors and up little staircases. Sometimes the child opened doors and made announcements. They came to the schoolroom, which was no cosy, shabby place with fireguard and cuckoo-clock. Cassandra could find nothing there more childish than an exercise book and
Caesar’s Gallic War
lying on the table. She fluttered the pages as Sophy went to the window, and was a little relieved to see Caesar’s profile made less austere by inked-in spectacles and moustache.
‘It is only a cat,’ Sophy was saying, bowed secretively over something on the window-seat. ‘It is only an ill cat.’
‘Your cat?’
The creature sneezed and Cassandra came to see. The little black face ran with tears, the creamy fur on the back clung together, as if with sweat. ‘A Siamese?’
Sophy said nothing, swung a foot carelessly, looked out of the window.
‘It is only a kitten,’ said Cassandra.
Then with sudden anguish, Sophy asked: ‘I think it is dying?’ And her voice wavered and dropped, and she
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