young females.”
Margaret was on her knees. The girl moved a little and drew a choking breath.
Charles bent nearer.
“Take her to a hospital, Margaret.”
“I can’t.”
She turned her face up to him, and it was as white as paper.
“My dear girl—”
“Charles—I can’t.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “She says her name—Charles, she says her name is Esther Brandon.”
Charles whistled again.
CHAPTER XVIII
Margot sat curled up in the one easy chair. She had a novel in her lap. The room was pleasantly warm, because before Margaret went out she had lighted the fire. There were no chocolates, and no one to talk to until Margaret got back at half past one. If it hadn’t been Saturday, Margaret would not have been back till nearly seven. Margot thought it was a very good thing that it was Saturday.
She was wearing a jumper and skirt of Margaret’s, and a pair of Margaret’s shoes and stockings. She was also wearing Margaret’s underclothes. Her own wet things were all in a heap inside the bedroom. It simply did not occur to her to pick them up and hang them in front of the fire to dry. After a night of profound slumber in Margaret’s bed she looked very little the worse for her fright and her wetting.
She wished she had some chocolates, and she wished Margaret would come back. The book was rather a dull one. Besides she didn’t want to read; she wanted to talk. It was frightful not to have anyone to talk to after the sort of things that had happened yesterday.
Margaret came home at half past one. She proceeded to get lunch. She had brought the lunch with her—a tin of bully beef, a loaf of bread, and a cream cheese.
“I’m hungry,” said Margot.
Margaret considered the beef and the cheese. They were meant to last over the week-end. Well, with any luck the girl would be off her hands to-day—she must be. She looked at Margot placidly eating beef and decided to wait until she had finished.
Margot announced a passion for cream cheese. She ate a good deal of it, and did not notice that Margaret ate bread and scrap; she was too busy talking about Stephanie and the skating parties they had had last winter—“I didn’t come home for the Christmas holidays”; and how Mrs. Beauchamp had taken her to Paris for Easter—“I got my coat there. Do you like it? Of course you haven’t seen it properly yet, because it’s all wet; but it’s rather nice, really, and Mrs. Beauchamp said it suited me.”
“Who is Mrs. Beauchamp?” said Margaret. She looked at the loaf, and decided that she had better not have a second piece of bread.
“Papa got her to look after me in the holidays. Can I have some more cheese?”
“And where is Mrs. Beauchamp?”
“Well, I expect she’s got to Australia by now. She was going out to see her son. Fancy! She’d never seen her grandchild—and it had the dinkiest curly hair! Don’t you call that frightfully hard?”
When Margaret had put away what was left of the loaf, the beef and the cheese, she planted herself squarely in front of Margot who had returned to the easy chair.
“Look here, we’ve got to talk. Is your name really Esther Brandon?”
Margot gazed at her ingenuously.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Then why did you say it was?”
“I thought it was a romantic name, and I thought if I was a penniless orphan and going out to earn my own living, I might just as well have a romantic name.”
“Where did you get it from?” Margaret’s deep voice was almost harsh. She sat forward in her chair and kept her eyes on Margot’s face.
Margot giggled.
“I found it on a bit of paper—a bit of a letter, you know. It was in an old desk. I expect it was my mother’s.”
Margaret drew a breath of relief. It was just a chance—a bit of some letter her mother had written long ago, perhaps to this girl’s mother, perhaps to some other relative. It didn’t really matter. She spoke again in an easier tone.
“You were going out to earn your living?
Margaret was on her knees. The girl moved a little and drew a choking breath.
Charles bent nearer.
“Take her to a hospital, Margaret.”
“I can’t.”
She turned her face up to him, and it was as white as paper.
“My dear girl—”
“Charles—I can’t.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “She says her name—Charles, she says her name is Esther Brandon.”
Charles whistled again.
CHAPTER XVIII
Margot sat curled up in the one easy chair. She had a novel in her lap. The room was pleasantly warm, because before Margaret went out she had lighted the fire. There were no chocolates, and no one to talk to until Margaret got back at half past one. If it hadn’t been Saturday, Margaret would not have been back till nearly seven. Margot thought it was a very good thing that it was Saturday.
She was wearing a jumper and skirt of Margaret’s, and a pair of Margaret’s shoes and stockings. She was also wearing Margaret’s underclothes. Her own wet things were all in a heap inside the bedroom. It simply did not occur to her to pick them up and hang them in front of the fire to dry. After a night of profound slumber in Margaret’s bed she looked very little the worse for her fright and her wetting.
She wished she had some chocolates, and she wished Margaret would come back. The book was rather a dull one. Besides she didn’t want to read; she wanted to talk. It was frightful not to have anyone to talk to after the sort of things that had happened yesterday.
Margaret came home at half past one. She proceeded to get lunch. She had brought the lunch with her—a tin of bully beef, a loaf of bread, and a cream cheese.
“I’m hungry,” said Margot.
Margaret considered the beef and the cheese. They were meant to last over the week-end. Well, with any luck the girl would be off her hands to-day—she must be. She looked at Margot placidly eating beef and decided to wait until she had finished.
Margot announced a passion for cream cheese. She ate a good deal of it, and did not notice that Margaret ate bread and scrap; she was too busy talking about Stephanie and the skating parties they had had last winter—“I didn’t come home for the Christmas holidays”; and how Mrs. Beauchamp had taken her to Paris for Easter—“I got my coat there. Do you like it? Of course you haven’t seen it properly yet, because it’s all wet; but it’s rather nice, really, and Mrs. Beauchamp said it suited me.”
“Who is Mrs. Beauchamp?” said Margaret. She looked at the loaf, and decided that she had better not have a second piece of bread.
“Papa got her to look after me in the holidays. Can I have some more cheese?”
“And where is Mrs. Beauchamp?”
“Well, I expect she’s got to Australia by now. She was going out to see her son. Fancy! She’d never seen her grandchild—and it had the dinkiest curly hair! Don’t you call that frightfully hard?”
When Margaret had put away what was left of the loaf, the beef and the cheese, she planted herself squarely in front of Margot who had returned to the easy chair.
“Look here, we’ve got to talk. Is your name really Esther Brandon?”
Margot gazed at her ingenuously.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Then why did you say it was?”
“I thought it was a romantic name, and I thought if I was a penniless orphan and going out to earn my own living, I might just as well have a romantic name.”
“Where did you get it from?” Margaret’s deep voice was almost harsh. She sat forward in her chair and kept her eyes on Margot’s face.
Margot giggled.
“I found it on a bit of paper—a bit of a letter, you know. It was in an old desk. I expect it was my mother’s.”
Margaret drew a breath of relief. It was just a chance—a bit of some letter her mother had written long ago, perhaps to this girl’s mother, perhaps to some other relative. It didn’t really matter. She spoke again in an easier tone.
“You were going out to earn your living?
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