Betty Trevor. Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey
or whatever you call it, when you showed it to him, and what the other men said, and—Oh, dozens of interesting things; but you can say nothing but ‘all right’ to every single question. It is dull!”
“You must allow for diversities of talent, Betty,” said Mrs. Trevor, laughing. “We do not all possess your powers of description. Miles is very modest over his success, and I, like you, want to hear more details. You must be sure to tell us how the trial works, Son; and if your improvement is permanently adopted, I shall be proud!”
“Nothing to be proud of!” muttered Miles into his plate.
If there was one thing he loathed more than another, it was to be praised and petted, and made the centre of attention. His roughened fingers clenched themselves tightly round the knife and fork, and he cut his beef into pieces with savage energy.
Why couldn’t they leave a fellow alone? All this fuss about a bit of a cog!
Betty divined his discomfiture, as she divined all that concerned her beloved brother, but she had not the tact to come to the rescue, and it was Jill who turned the conversation by a casual question which yet was of interest to all the family.
“Father, is there a father at the big house at the corner? We can’t decide what’s the matter with him. There must have been one, of course, because of the Pet. Jack says he’s dead, but she is not in mourning, and the mother doesn’t wear widow’s things. I say he’s gone a tour round the world, and is buying presents at every port so as to pamper her more than ever when he comes back.”
Dr. Trevor looked a trifle mystified, but he was accustomed to his children’s mental flights, and, after a moment’s consideration, he replied smilingly—
“If you mean Number 14, the tenant is a certain Major Alliot, who is at present, I believe, with his regiment in India. I don’t know anything about his household, or the identity of the ‘Pet,’ as you are pleased to call her.”
“I wish she’d fall downstairs, or have an accident of some sort suddenly, so that they’d have to fly across for you in a hurry,” sighed Jill with frank brutality. “I wish all the people in that row would have accidents, so that you could tell us all about them. We are dying with curiosity!”
“Wouldn’t influenza do as well? There is no need to be quite so brutal, Jill,” her father reminded her. “Besides, it is hardly my usual custom to tell you ‘all about’ my cases, is it? I should be very glad to find new patients nearer here for my own sake; which reminds me, dear, that I have to go a long drive after dinner, and shan’t be home for the evening, as I hoped. It is unfortunate having so many late nights this week.”
Mrs. Trevor’s brow shadowed for a moment, but she recovered herself, and smiled bravely at her husband, while Betty cried emphatically—
“I shall never marry a doctor!”
“Lucky beggar! He’s had an escape anyway!” growled Miles beneath his breath, quite unable to resist paying Betty back for her attack on him a few moments before, and Betty laughed as merrily as the rest at the joke against herself.
“Well, I shall have an escape too! I don’t like ill people or having anything to do with them; it’s not my vocation!” she announced grandiloquently, and her face fell with dismay when her father said cheerily—
“Oh, come, you don’t do yourself justice, dear. I always find you a very acceptable little nurse. Mrs. Ewen was asking for you only to-day. I should be glad if you would make a point of going to see her some afternoon this week, and trying to amuse her for an hour or two. She has had a very sharp attack, poor soul.”
“Yes, father,” assented Betty meekly, but mentally she ground her teeth.
Mrs. Ewen was an old patient, a tiresome patient from Betty’s point of view, who never grew better, but was frequently worse, who spent all her life in her bedroom and an upstairs sitting-room, her chief subject of conversation being the misdemeanours of her hardly-worked nurses. She had taken a fancy to the doctor’s young daughter, and liked to be visited by her as often as possible in convalescent periods; but Betty did not return the liking.
“She doesn’t understand girls,” she grumbled to herself. “I don’t believe she ever was a girl herself. She must have been born about forty, with spectacles and a cap. I can’t think why she wants to see me. I do nothing but say ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ while she abuses other people, and yawn my head off in that stifling room. And I did so want to get on with my blouse. Seems as if I could never do as I like, somehow!”
She sat looking such an image of meekness and resignation, with her smoothly-braided locks and downcast lids, that her father’s lips twitched with amusement as he glanced at her, and quickly averted his eyes. He knew just as well as she did how distasteful his request had been, but he was none the less anxious to enforce it. Betty’s horizon was blocked with self at the present moment, and anything and everything was of gain which forced her to think of something besides that all-important personage Miss Elizabeth Trevor.
Chapter Four.
A Piece of Looking-Glass.
“Such a joke, Jill! The sun is shining, and the Pet is sitting reading, in the drawing-room window, and I’ve found a broken piece of looking-glass in the street.—There’s luck! Let’s hide behind the curtains and flash it in her eyes!”
Jill’s book fell down with a crash, and she leapt to her feet, abeam with anticipation. It was Saturday, and she had announced her intention of “stewing hard” all the afternoon, but the claims of examinations sank into the background before the thrilling prospect held out by her twin.
“Break it in two! Fair does, Jack! Give me a bit, and let us flash in turns!” she cried eagerly; but Jack would not consent to anything so rash.
“How can I divide it, silly?” he replied. “I haven’t a diamond to cut it, and if I crunch it with my foot it may all go to smithereens, and there will be nothing left. I’ll lend it to you for a bit now and then, but you won’t aim straight. Girls never do!”
“I do! I do!” Jill maintained loudly. “I will! I will! Come along, be quick! She might move away, and it would be such a sell. I’ll kneel down here and keep the curtains round me. I wonder what she’s reading. Something awfully dry and proper, I expect! What heaps of hair! It hangs over her face, so that we shan’t be able to dazzle her a bit.”
“Yes, we will,” contradicted Jack. “She’ll see the light dancing about on the page, and look up to see what’s the matter! You watch, but mind you don’t bob up your head and let her see you!”
“Mind you don’t let her see your hand! It’s sticking right out. You ought to put on a dark glove, which she wouldn’t notice against the pane.”
Jack was pleased to approve of the glove proposition, and an adjournment was made to the doctor’s dressing-room, where a pair of ‘funeral gloves’ were discovered which seemed exactly what was desired. Jack drew one on his right hand, Jill drew the other on her left, and thus equipped they crept back to their hiding-place behind the shabby red curtains, and proceeded to work.
It was rather difficult to move the glass so as to throw the reflection on one exact spot, as the conspirators could only peep out for a moment at a time. The little white circle of light danced all over the big grey house before it found the window above the porch, and, moving slowly up and down, eventually alighted on the page of the open book. Jill giggled, Jack snored loudly, as was his habit when excited; the Pet gave a little hitch round in her chair, and read on stolidly.
“My turn! My turn!” cried Jill excitedly. “You’ve had your innings, now give me mine. Hand it over!” and the two black gloved hands met in the middle of