squarely. He met the open scorn in her eyes without any change of expression in his own brown eyes. Then he spoke.
“I believe, Mr. Chairman, that the esteemed lady beside me is still with us on that particular point. Is that right, Mrs. Dubois?” Dr. Malcolm turned to Fayette and flashed her a charming smile.
She smiled back at him and graciously inclined her sculptured blond head. “Most certainly I am with you,” she said.
The meeting was breaking up. Little groups were forming. Cathy could hear old Miss Marriott telling the chairman how she was a great believer in camphor bags for warding off chills.
“I don’t understand,” Cathy murmured to Mrs. Flett.
The minister’s wife was a perceptive person. She knew that Cathy did not refer to the camphor bags.
“Mrs. Dubois has tremendous influence,” she answered in a quick low voice. “As well as money, which is influence on its own, she has valuable contacts in political circles, influential friends in welfare departments. In short, Miss Trent, she holds us all in the hollow of her very beautiful hand.” Cathy glanced up at Mrs. Flett and was met with a sweet bland look. Too bland, thought Cathy with an inward quirk.
The meeting would soon be over. Cathy thought of Rita. Surely the tea-passing episode was sufficiently distant now for her to approach Mrs. Dubois concerning the girl’s lipstick.
She went over.
“Mrs. Dubois . .. ”
“Oh, it’s Miss Trent again.”
“There was something I wanted to ask you. Not you personally, but as representative of the women members of the board. I have been told that most questions are so referred.”
“All question are so referred,” corrected Fayette airily, “dealing with boys or girls. What was it, Miss Trent?”
“It concerns Rita.”
“Oh.” The ejaculation was not encouraging .
All the phrases that Cathy had planned to say were slipping away from her. She found herself stammering as Rita might have stammered. She felt she could not possibly make sense, but she must have, for Fayette Dubois was answering her in a cool clipped voice.
“Certainly not, Miss Trent. I have never heard anything so absurd or in such bad taste since I have been coming here to Redgates. I know in answering so decisively that I h ave the rest of the board, man and woman, behind me. A lipstick for a child, indeed. And for a precocious badly trained child at that. I shall not go any further into the matter. Sufficient for Rita—and for you —that the subject is closed. You understand?”
For the second time that afternoon Cathy murmured, “Of course.”
She watched Fayette go out, joined at the door by Jeremy Malcolm.
She watched her send off her chauffeur and get into the green convertible beside Dr. Malcolm instead.
She saw a look in Miss Marriott’s eyes that meant further discussion on camphor bags and hurriedly escaped. At the other end of the corridor David Kennedy was waiting to talk over the afternoon’s doings, but all at once she co u ld not face even David.
But Rita had to be faced, and she had better get it over with. She went to the kitchen where the girls were still washing the afternoon tea things.
“Rita...”
“Yes, Aunty Cathy?” The girl had turned eager eyes to her. She had told Rita that she would ask this afternoon, and she knew that every minute had brought rising excitement.
“Come out to the garden with me, Rita.”
Rita did not move.
“Come, dear.”
“It doesn’t matter, thank you.”
“Rita...”
Rita had thrown down the tea towel and run out of the room. She had read the look on Cathy’s face, and her own face was streaming with disappointed tears. There was something else there beside the tears: anger, resentment, reproach and the sharp glint of reprisal.
Cathy ran after her. “Rita, dear ...”
“Oh, go away. It was all right for you. You had parents who let you do things, who loved you...”
“I haven’t now, Rita. They were both killed in an accident when I
“I believe, Mr. Chairman, that the esteemed lady beside me is still with us on that particular point. Is that right, Mrs. Dubois?” Dr. Malcolm turned to Fayette and flashed her a charming smile.
She smiled back at him and graciously inclined her sculptured blond head. “Most certainly I am with you,” she said.
The meeting was breaking up. Little groups were forming. Cathy could hear old Miss Marriott telling the chairman how she was a great believer in camphor bags for warding off chills.
“I don’t understand,” Cathy murmured to Mrs. Flett.
The minister’s wife was a perceptive person. She knew that Cathy did not refer to the camphor bags.
“Mrs. Dubois has tremendous influence,” she answered in a quick low voice. “As well as money, which is influence on its own, she has valuable contacts in political circles, influential friends in welfare departments. In short, Miss Trent, she holds us all in the hollow of her very beautiful hand.” Cathy glanced up at Mrs. Flett and was met with a sweet bland look. Too bland, thought Cathy with an inward quirk.
The meeting would soon be over. Cathy thought of Rita. Surely the tea-passing episode was sufficiently distant now for her to approach Mrs. Dubois concerning the girl’s lipstick.
She went over.
“Mrs. Dubois . .. ”
“Oh, it’s Miss Trent again.”
“There was something I wanted to ask you. Not you personally, but as representative of the women members of the board. I have been told that most questions are so referred.”
“All question are so referred,” corrected Fayette airily, “dealing with boys or girls. What was it, Miss Trent?”
“It concerns Rita.”
“Oh.” The ejaculation was not encouraging .
All the phrases that Cathy had planned to say were slipping away from her. She found herself stammering as Rita might have stammered. She felt she could not possibly make sense, but she must have, for Fayette Dubois was answering her in a cool clipped voice.
“Certainly not, Miss Trent. I have never heard anything so absurd or in such bad taste since I have been coming here to Redgates. I know in answering so decisively that I h ave the rest of the board, man and woman, behind me. A lipstick for a child, indeed. And for a precocious badly trained child at that. I shall not go any further into the matter. Sufficient for Rita—and for you —that the subject is closed. You understand?”
For the second time that afternoon Cathy murmured, “Of course.”
She watched Fayette go out, joined at the door by Jeremy Malcolm.
She watched her send off her chauffeur and get into the green convertible beside Dr. Malcolm instead.
She saw a look in Miss Marriott’s eyes that meant further discussion on camphor bags and hurriedly escaped. At the other end of the corridor David Kennedy was waiting to talk over the afternoon’s doings, but all at once she co u ld not face even David.
But Rita had to be faced, and she had better get it over with. She went to the kitchen where the girls were still washing the afternoon tea things.
“Rita...”
“Yes, Aunty Cathy?” The girl had turned eager eyes to her. She had told Rita that she would ask this afternoon, and she knew that every minute had brought rising excitement.
“Come out to the garden with me, Rita.”
Rita did not move.
“Come, dear.”
“It doesn’t matter, thank you.”
“Rita...”
Rita had thrown down the tea towel and run out of the room. She had read the look on Cathy’s face, and her own face was streaming with disappointed tears. There was something else there beside the tears: anger, resentment, reproach and the sharp glint of reprisal.
Cathy ran after her. “Rita, dear ...”
“Oh, go away. It was all right for you. You had parents who let you do things, who loved you...”
“I haven’t now, Rita. They were both killed in an accident when I
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