She was at once inflated and on
edge, and consequently hotly indignant, as though the unfairest march
possible had been stolen upon her.
She bustled upstairs, and crossing the landing turned into the schoolroom
passage--a long, lamp-lit vista, hung with old Chinese wall-paper, the
running pattern of buds and flowers, large out of all proportion to the
bridges, palms, pagodas and groups of little purple and blue-clad men and
women disposed, in dwindling perspective, upon its once white surface.
Half-way along the passage, their backs towards her, Mary and Mrs.
Cooper, the cook--a fair, mild middle-aged, and cow-like person, of ample
proportions--stood conversing in smothered tones.
"And it's my belief he's been and told her, or anyhow that she guesses,
pore dear young lady," the latter, with upraised hands, lamented.
Theresa just caught these strange words. Caught too, Mary's hurried
rejoinder--"For mercy's sake, Mrs. Cooper, not a hint of that to any
living soul"--before the two women, sensible of the swish and patter of
her self-important entry, turned and moved forward to meet, or--could it
be?--to intercept her.
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