“Naturally people would know more about a school kept by a connection,” said Maud. “And would be more likely to go to it. And Miss Firebrace said the matter was to be forgotten during the term.”
“Then why did she remember it? And why do you?” said Esther. “Why put it into our heads, just to give us the trouble of getting it out again?”
“You do not seem to be taking the trouble,” said Clemence, affording some amusement to Verity and Gwendolen.
“A spurious connection seems to make more confusion than a real one.”
“It makes no confusion, Esther,” said Maud, who had the school habit of using people’s names with courteous frequency and deliberation. “Indeed, I have never known a point emerge with greater clearness.”
“Is it anything to be ashamed of?” said Gwendolen, again. “I don’t see so much disgrace in keeping a school. Perhaps there isn’t any.”
“I should say there is no occupation that carries less disgrace, Gwendolen. Miss Firebrace merely meant that no difference was to be made.”
“Does it make any other difference to come to a school kept by a relation, by a connection?” said Esther, in a tone at once blunt and innocent.
“I suppose not, if it is to be forgotten,” said Clemence.
“I meant any difference of any kind.”
“Does Miss Firebrace do you charity, or do you do her charity?” said Gwendolen, laughing at her own openness.
“Oh, I expect we do her charity,” said Clemence, finding the situation taken in hand by something outside herself, and surprised at her ease in it. “That is how it would be.”
“Have you been in the habit of doing her charity?”
“Oh, I don’t know. My father may have a certain sense of responsibility towards her,” said Clemence, uncertain where instinctive knowledge stopped and invention began.
“Clemence, be careful that you do not betray anyone’s confidence,” said Maud.
“Do your people do a lot of charity?” said Esther.
“Yes, a good deal, or I expect they do. That is how it would have to be. I know my father says it is a drain on the family resources,” said Clemence, trying to strike a happy mean in her suggestions.
“Why do they do so much charity?” said Gwendolen. “I don’t think my parents do. I believe we keep all we have, for ourselves.”
“We could hardly do that, as we are placed. I mean, we have to do what the family has always done. I don’t think we should have any choice.”
“‘That is how it would have to be,’” quoted Verity.
“Is your father the lord of the manor?” said Esther, with her eyes on something in her hand.
“Oh, I daresay he is. It is the sort of thing he would be amongst other things. But it would not make much difference. He is what would be called the squire, though it sounds an old-fashioned term.”
“An old-fashioned term!” said Verity.
“Well, it is the word for something that no other term gives, Verity,” said Maud.
“Who calls him that?” said Esther.
“The people in the village and about the place.”
“Do you choose your own clothes?” said Esther, throwing her eyes over Clemence and as rapidly withdrawing them.
“No. My mother chooses them. I have not troubled about such things yet. Or sometimes Miss Petticott does.”
“Who is Miss Petticott?”
“The governess. We call her the Petticoat.”
“To her face?” said Gwendolen.
“No, behind her back, but I think she knows.”
“Are you very rude people in your home?” said Gwendolen. “Ruder than we are here?”
“No, about the same,” said Clemence.
There was a sound of mirth.
“I suppose Miss Petty-something will leave now?”
“No, she will stay to help my mother and to be with us in the holidays.”
The girls exchanged glances, as though this shed a real light.
“What kind of things does your mother do?” said Esther.
“Esther, Clemence will think we are unable to put a remark except in the form of a question,” said Maud.
“Oh, there are notes to write, and lists to make, and messages to be taken, and all kinds of things to manage in the village.”
“Has your mother a high sense of duty?” said Gwendolen.
“Yes, I believe she has. She is always thinking of the welfare of everyone about her.”
“I suppose in her position she has to,” said Esther, with a glance at Verity.
“Yes, she would hardly have any alternative.”
“Who mends your clothes?” said Esther.
“Adela, the maid I share with my brother.”
“Your brother?” said more than one voice.
“Oh, he is only eleven. She is a sort of nurse.”
“And do your father and mother share a maid?” said Gwendolen.
“Gwendolen, I wonder if you realise the impression you are giving,” said Maud.
“No, I think my mother has one to herself,” said Clemence, finding the fiction spring to her lips of its own force.
“Are you not sure?”
“Well, I think a maid who does other things waits on her as well.”
“And does your father have another maid?” said Esther.
“Perhaps it is time,” said Verity, under her breath, “as he has had so many wives, and a maid is a sort of nurse.”
“No, Aldom looks after him in so far as he needs looking after. He does not want much done for him.”
“Who is Aldom?”
“He is called the butler, or calls himself that. He is all kinds of things. He is the only man we have in the house.”
“Isn’t your father a man?”
“Oh, you must know the use of the term, man, for manservant.”
“I do not wonder if Clemence is losing her patience,” said Maud.
“Was it your mother who was getting into a cab at the door just now?” said Esther. “Or did the governess come with you?”
“I expect that was the governess,” said Clemence, meeting the truth that one falsehood leads to another, as Maria’s appearance and the possession of a maid were incompatible.
“She looked like your mother. She was rather like you in the face. Her eyes were like yours.”
“Well, I don’t know who it was. They both came with me.”
“Then did not they both have to go?”
“Miss Petticott went early to the station to do some shopping on the way. But she may have come back to go with my mother. I said good-bye to them both in the drawing-room.”
“Did you cry?” said Gwendolen.
“Well, perhaps I did a little,” said Clemence, glad to be released from the effort of invention, though she had found it lighter than she could have hoped.
“Poor Clemence!” said four voices, though Esther’s was a little distraught.
“How old are you?” said Gwendolen. “I should think you are about fourteen.”
“I shall be fourteen in about two months, I think,” said Clemence, unused to the school custom of exact estimation of age.
There was some mirth.
“Are you not sure, Clemence?” said Maud, with a note of admonition.
“Yes, I suppose I am; I had not thought much about it. I shall be fourteen on November the twelfth.”
“What a dull sort of day for a birthday!” said Esther.
“Well, Clemence had not much choice in the matter,” said Maud.
“I had none that I remember,” said Clemence.
“You will be the youngest in the form,” said Gwendolen. “You sound as if you would be that. We are all fifteen except Maud, who is sixteen and a half. I was the youngest before you came; I was fifteen yesterday. You have ousted me from my place.”
“Have you a very good brain? I suppose you have,” said Esther, in a resigned tone.
“I don’t know why I should be different from the rest of you.”