She'll be the talk of the place. And what if she got herself into some entanglement or other while she's under our care? John's eldest daughter and an insignificant little dissenter, poor as a church mouse, and years older than she is! Think what Lizzie would say!"
"My dear, Lizzie's sentiments would be the same, and were it Croesus and Adonis rolled into one."
"Well, yes, I suppose they would. -- But Emmy is far too extravagant for a poor man's wife. She changes her underclothing every day of the week. You should hear Maria grumble at the washing! Besides, she's everlastingly titivating, dressing her hair or something. She does none of the jobs one expects from a nursery- governess. And if I venture to find fault . . . I don't know, but she seems greatly changed. I think first her father's death, and then Jacky's have thoroughly spoiled her."
"Well! to have the two mortals you've set your heart on snatched from you, one after the other, isn't it enough to dash the stoutest? . . . . let alone an innocent young girl. Emmy has been through a great spiritual experience, and one result of it might very well be to mature her . . . turn her into a woman who feels her power. It will probably be the same wherever she goes, with a face like hers. In her father's house, she would of course have met more eligible men than we, in our poor circumstances, can offer her. Still, my advice would be, such as they are, ask 'em to the house. Let everything be open and aboveboard."
"What! invite that little Angus? Nonsense! It would only be encouraging him. Besides, it's all very well for you to theorise; I have to look at it from the practical side. And it surely isn't what one has a governess for? . . . to smooth the way for her flirtations. I may as well tell you everything. When she first came, I used to send her running up to the station -- if I needed stamps, or small change, or things like that -- Mr. Pendrell is always so obliging. But I had to stop it. She took to staying away an unconscionable time, and his wife must have got wind of it, she began to look so queerly at Emmy and to drop hints. Most uncomfortable. And then you've surely noticed how often old Thistlethwaite comes to see us now, compared with what he used to, and how he sits and stares at Emmy. He looks at her far too much, too, when he's preaching, and I've heard him pay her the most outrageous compliments. A clergyman and a widower, and old enough to be her grandfather! But Emmy just drinks it in. Now, mind you, if there were any question of a decent match for her, I'd do what I could to help . . . for I don't believe Lizzie will ever let her say how-do-you-do to an eligible. But I cannot have her getting into mischief here -- why, even the baker tries to snatch a word with her when he delivers the bread! -- and being branded as forward, and a common flirt. No, the truth is, she's just too pretty to be of the least practical use."
Mahony made no reply.
"Are you listening, Richard? . . . to what I say?"
"Yes, I hear."
"I thought you were asleep. Well, perhaps you'll rouse yourself and tell me what I ought to do."
"I suppose there's nothing for it: Emmy must go."
"And then?"
"Then?"
"I mean about the children. Who's to give them their lessons and their music-lessons? . . . and take them out walking?"
"My dear, can you not teach them yourself for a bit?"
"No, Richard, I cannot! At the age they're at now, they need one person's undivided attention. They've simply got to have a governess."
"Oh well! I suppose if you must you must . . . and that's all about it."
The implication in these words exasperated Mary.
"If I must? I'm not asking anything for myself! You've never heard me utter a word of complaint. But I can't do more than I am doing. Any one but you would see it. But you're as blind as a bat!"
"Not so blind as you think, my dear. One thing I see is that you never hesitate to load me up with a fresh expense."
"No, that's out-and-away unfair," cried
"My dear, Lizzie's sentiments would be the same, and were it Croesus and Adonis rolled into one."
"Well, yes, I suppose they would. -- But Emmy is far too extravagant for a poor man's wife. She changes her underclothing every day of the week. You should hear Maria grumble at the washing! Besides, she's everlastingly titivating, dressing her hair or something. She does none of the jobs one expects from a nursery- governess. And if I venture to find fault . . . I don't know, but she seems greatly changed. I think first her father's death, and then Jacky's have thoroughly spoiled her."
"Well! to have the two mortals you've set your heart on snatched from you, one after the other, isn't it enough to dash the stoutest? . . . . let alone an innocent young girl. Emmy has been through a great spiritual experience, and one result of it might very well be to mature her . . . turn her into a woman who feels her power. It will probably be the same wherever she goes, with a face like hers. In her father's house, she would of course have met more eligible men than we, in our poor circumstances, can offer her. Still, my advice would be, such as they are, ask 'em to the house. Let everything be open and aboveboard."
"What! invite that little Angus? Nonsense! It would only be encouraging him. Besides, it's all very well for you to theorise; I have to look at it from the practical side. And it surely isn't what one has a governess for? . . . to smooth the way for her flirtations. I may as well tell you everything. When she first came, I used to send her running up to the station -- if I needed stamps, or small change, or things like that -- Mr. Pendrell is always so obliging. But I had to stop it. She took to staying away an unconscionable time, and his wife must have got wind of it, she began to look so queerly at Emmy and to drop hints. Most uncomfortable. And then you've surely noticed how often old Thistlethwaite comes to see us now, compared with what he used to, and how he sits and stares at Emmy. He looks at her far too much, too, when he's preaching, and I've heard him pay her the most outrageous compliments. A clergyman and a widower, and old enough to be her grandfather! But Emmy just drinks it in. Now, mind you, if there were any question of a decent match for her, I'd do what I could to help . . . for I don't believe Lizzie will ever let her say how-do-you-do to an eligible. But I cannot have her getting into mischief here -- why, even the baker tries to snatch a word with her when he delivers the bread! -- and being branded as forward, and a common flirt. No, the truth is, she's just too pretty to be of the least practical use."
Mahony made no reply.
"Are you listening, Richard? . . . to what I say?"
"Yes, I hear."
"I thought you were asleep. Well, perhaps you'll rouse yourself and tell me what I ought to do."
"I suppose there's nothing for it: Emmy must go."
"And then?"
"Then?"
"I mean about the children. Who's to give them their lessons and their music-lessons? . . . and take them out walking?"
"My dear, can you not teach them yourself for a bit?"
"No, Richard, I cannot! At the age they're at now, they need one person's undivided attention. They've simply got to have a governess."
"Oh well! I suppose if you must you must . . . and that's all about it."
The implication in these words exasperated Mary.
"If I must? I'm not asking anything for myself! You've never heard me utter a word of complaint. But I can't do more than I am doing. Any one but you would see it. But you're as blind as a bat!"
"Not so blind as you think, my dear. One thing I see is that you never hesitate to load me up with a fresh expense."
"No, that's out-and-away unfair," cried
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