“Yes,” said Blanche, speaking for the first time. “We know her a little, but still it is quite different from what it used to be when mamma was a girl here.”
“Well yes, to be sure,” said Miss Halliday, “for it was your dear mamma’s home; and no one was more respected in all the country-side, as I’ve heard my aunt say, than your dear grandpapa, the late Mr Fenning. It was quite a different thing in the next vicars time; his wife and daughters were not, so to say, in the county society at all.”
“Do you mean the Flemings?” asked Blanche; “yes, I have heard of them. I hope people don’t confuse mamma with them; sometimes I’ve been afraid they may do.”
Miss Halliday grew a little pink again.
“Well, Miss, as you’ve mentioned it,” she said, “though I wouldn’t have made free to speak of it myself, I’m afraid there may have been some mistake of the kind in one or two quarters, and seeing that it was so, I made bold to set it right; telling those that had made the mistake, that your dear mamma came of a very high family indeed, as my dear aunt has often told me, and that on both sides.”
Blanche could not help smiling, though she was touched by the little milliner’s loyalty.
“Thank you, Miss Halliday,” she said. “I should certainly be sorry for mamma’s family to be confused with the Flemings, not so much because they were – well, scarcely gentlepeople by birth – but because they were not particularly nice in themselves. It is misleading that the two names are so like, and I am glad you explained it.”
“I won’t mention names,” said Miss Halliday, beaming with satisfaction; “but it will all come right in the end, you will see, my dear young ladies. And now I think tea must be ready in the drawing-room, if you’ll be so good as to step that way.”
“But you are going to have tea with us,” said Stasy. “It would be no fun if you didn’t. And we have to settle the day for our first lesson; and you’ve never been out to see our house yet, Miss Halliday. Mamma sent a special message about that.”
“What a good little soul she is!” said Blanche, as Stasy and she were walking home together.
“Yes, isn’t she?” said Stasy. “Blanche,” she went on, thoughtfully, after a moment’s pause, “do you ever think how nice it would be to be really very rich? Not just comfortable, as we are, but really rich, with lots to give away. What nice things one could do for other people! We could pay for a very clever assistant for Miss Halliday, for instance, so that she might get to be quite a grand milliner, and the people here would go to her for their bonnets instead of sending to London.”
Blanche laughed.
“We should have to frank her over to Paris also once or twice a year. Fancy Miss Halliday in Paris!” she said. “However beautiful her bonnets were, no one could believe in her unless she went to Paris. Yes, it would be very nice to be able to do things like that. But, on the other hand – ” She stopped, and seemed to be thinking.
“What were you going to say?” asked Stasy.
“I was only thinking,” Blanche replied, “how little we can realise what it must be to be poor. To feel that one’s actual daily bread – food and clothes and common necessaries – depend on one’s work. I suppose, however, it does not seem hard or depressing to those who have always been accustomed to it.”
“I have thought of it sometimes,” said Stasy. “I’m not sure that there wouldn’t be a sort of pleasure about it. It would be very interesting and exciting. What I dislike most is the being nobody in particular, neither one thing nor the other, as we have rather felt ourselves here! Nothing specially to do, and no feeling that it would matter if you didn’t do it. That is so dull.”
“I suppose,” said Blanche thoughtfully again, “that things to do, things that you feel you could do better than any one else could do them, always do turn up sooner or later if one really wants to use one’s life well.”
“Oh,” said Stasy, with a touch of impatience. “I don’t look at things in such a grand way as you do, Blanchie. I want to get some fun out of life, and, after all, I’m not difficult to please. My spirits have gone up ever so high, just with the idea of learning millinery and teaching the girls, and perhaps helping good little Miss Halliday. Blanchie, don’t you think we might plan some kind of hats that the guild girls would look very nice in – something that Lady Hebe would be sure to notice when she comes back. Perhaps if we ordered a lot of them untrimmed, you know, and got ribbon and things, we could let the girls have them more cheaply than they could buy them. There’d be no harm in that, would there? Of course, I know the guild isn’t supposed to be at all a charity – ”
“We may be able to do something of the kind,” said Blanche. “But it wouldn’t do to have them all the same, or even very like each other. The girls wouldn’t care for it, and it would make a sort of show-off of the guild. We must think about it; and I want them to learn to trim their mothers’ bonnets and caps and their younger sisters’ things, as well as their own.”
Chapter Fourteen
Monsieur Bergeret’s Letter
The millinery lessons were begun and steadily carried on without the interest of either of the sisters flagging. For, in spite of Stasy’s capriciousness, there was a good of real material in her: she would have despised herself for not carrying out any plan she had formed. And she was not disappointed in her expectation of getting some “fun” out of this new pursuit. It was a pleasure to her to find how deft and neat-handed a little practice made her. Taste in harmonising and blending colours, and a quick eye for graceful form, she had by nature.
Miss Halliday was full of admiration.
“There’s nothing more I can teach you, young ladies,” she said, at the end of a fortnight, during which time they had had about half-a-dozen lessons. “Miss Stasy – if it wasn’t impertinent to say so – I would call you a born milliner. Now, I never would have thought of putting violets with that brown velvet, never! And yet there’s no denying they go most beautifully, and you do make the ribbons and trimmings go so far, too. I’ve always been told it was the best of French work that it’s so light – never overloaded. – And Miss Derwent, you are so neat; indeed, if I might say so, almost too particular.”
Blanche smiled.
“I haven’t got such fairy fingers as Stasy, I know,” she said admiringly, “though perhaps I could beat her at plain-sewing. Yes, I have run on that lace too heavily, I see. Well, and so you think we’re ready now to teach our girls, Miss Halliday, do you?”
“Indeed, yes, Miss; and I shall be so pleased to order the hats you want for you at any time, charging you, of course, just what I pay for them myself.”
“No indeed,” said Blanche; “that wouldn’t be fair; you must charge a little commission. I’ve made out a short list of the things we want to begin with. We’re thinking of having our first millinery class next Wednesday evening. We can’t have more than one a week, for Miss Wandle and Miss Bracy have two other evening classes, and we don’t want the mothers to think the girls are too much away from home.”
“I’m sure it’s better for them than idling about the lanes,” said Miss Halliday, “and that’s what they mostly spend their evenings in at this time of year.”
“Have you got anything settled about your own plans, Miss Halliday?” asked Stasy.
The milliner shook her head, and gave a little sigh.
“Not yet, Miss Stasy,” she replied; “and unless I can find a partner who could put a little money into the concern, I’m afraid I must make shift to go on alone for some time to come. I’ve got so behind with what I owe, for the first time in my life, all through that disappointment about Miss Green.”
“I really think she should have paid you something,” said Stasy. “I’m afraid you’re too good-natured, Miss Halliday. And now you’re going to be good-natured to us, and let us come in two or three times a week to help you a little.”
“You’re really too kind, Miss Stasy,” said Miss Halliday. “I don’t feel as if I could let you do such a thing. And what would your dear mamma think of it?”
“She’s quite pleased,” said Blanche; “she’s always glad for us to be of any use we can.”
“And really I have nothing to do now,” said Stasy. “The dancing class and the gymnastics are given up for the summer, and my lessons don’t take up long at all. I’ve got in the way of coming to Blissmore every day with Herty; it would be dreadfully dull to stay always at Pinnerton.”
So it was settled that the sisters should come two or three mornings a week to help poor Miss Halliday as much as possible, though, of course, the arrangement was to be kept perfectly private.
It certainly did Stasy a great deal of good to have more to do and some feeling of responsibility. She became more cheerful and more equable in temper than she had yet been in their new home. She was even amiable enough to offer no objection to Blanche’s consent to Florry Wandle’s eager, though modest, request that she and her cousin might be allowed to join the millinery class.
“I scarcely see that we have any right to refuse them,” Miss Derwent had said, “seeing that they actually belong to the guild. Anyway, it would be most ill-natured to do so, as they are good, nice girls.”
“I don’t mind,” said Stasy, “if you and mamma think it right. So long as we are not obliged to go to their houses in return, that’s to say.”
But what Stasy really enjoyed was the amateur apprenticeship to Miss Halliday. It gave her the profoundest pleasure to stroll down the High Street and glance in at the milliner’s window, where hats and bonnets of her own creation were displayed to the admiring gaze of the passers-by. And never had Miss Halliday’s stock-in-trade changed hands so quickly. Orders multiplied with such rapidity that the milliner was scarcely able to execute them, and many were the compliments she received on the improved taste and excellent finish of her handiwork.
“You’ve surely got a very good assistant now,” said Mrs Burgess one day. “I don’t think I’ve seen any prettier bonnets even in Paris than some of those you’ve had this year.”
For Mrs Burgess had now returned from her visit to the Continent, and was very full of allusions to her travels.
Miss Halliday smiled as she replied: “Yes, she thought she had been very fortunate.”
But she kept her secret well, and so did her little servant. And no one noticed the frequency of the Misses Derwent’s visits, as they came in and out by the long garden at the back of Miss Halliday’s house, whence a door opening into the lane cut off the necessity of their passing through the entrance to the town, and somewhat shortened their walk.
Summer was advancing by this time with rapid strides. The spring had been a late one, but when the fine sunny weather did come, the delay was amply compensated for. Sunshine, blossoms, and flowers came with a burst. One could almost see everything growing. Mrs Derwent, who was keenly sensitive to such things, enjoyed this first spring in England, after her many years’ absence, intensely, though quietly, all the more so that Stasy, her chief source of anxiety, was now so much more cheerful.
“Things must come right for them both,” thought the mother to herself. “They are really so good! Very few girls would make themselves happy in so monotonous and isolated a life.”
For even Mrs Harrowby had gone to stay with her own relations in London for a time; and Rosy Milward, who had come over to Pinnerton now and then on guild business, had taken flight, like the rest of the world.
The charms of outside nature, the peace and quiet happiness of their own home, and a fair amount of interesting occupation, made the next few weeks pass pleasantly. Afterwards, Blanche felt glad that it had been so. There was a satisfaction in looking back upon this little space of time as bright and cheerful.
“I really think,” said Stasy one day, when she and Blanche were walking back together from Blissmore, “that we are getting acclimatised at last, Blanchie, or rather I should say, I am, for I’m sure you’ve never been anything but contented. I can look forward now to going on living here with mamma and you for – oh! for ever so long, even if nothing more exciting comes into our lives.”
“I’m so glad,” said Blanche heartily. “Yes, we’ve been very happy lately, haven’t we?”
“But some day,” Stasy went on again, “some day, Blanchie, you must marry. Though I can’t, even in my wildest dreams, picture anyone good enough for you. But you are far too pretty to be an old maid!”
“I can’t imagine marrying,” said Blanche musingly; “that’s to say, I can’t imagine any one caring enough for me, or my caring enough for any one! And I can’t imagine marrying without plenty of caring.”
“Of course not,” said Stasy. They walked on in silence for a little, till almost in sight of their own gate.
“I thought mamma would have come to meet us, perhaps, as she often does,” said Blanche. “But let’s hurry on a little, Stasy, and make her come out in the wood before tea.”
“And we might have tea in the garden, don’t you think?” said Stasy. “We’ve not had it out of doors once this week, the afternoons have been so showery.”
So talking, they crossed their own lawn, entering the house by one of the French windows of the drawing-room, where they half expected to find their mother.
She was not there, however, nor was she in the library.
“I hope she hasn’t gone out alone,” said Blanche. “Run up-stairs, Stasy dear, and see if she is in her room.”
Stasy did so, Blanche remaining at the foot of the staircase.
She heard Stasy’s step along the passage, a door opening, and the young girls cheerful “Are you there, mamma dear?” Then – or was it her fancy? – a sort of muffled exclamation, and the slamming to of the door, as there was a good deal of wind that afternoon, and for a moment or two nothing more.
Blanche grew slightly impatient, which was not usual with her. Was there a touch of instinctive anxiety in the impatience?
“Stasy might be quick,” she said to herself. “If mamma is out, we – ”
But just then came Stasy’s voice.
“Blanche,” it said, “come up at once. I can’t leave mamma: there is something the matter.”
Blanche flew up-stairs, her imagination, even in that short space of time, picturing to itself a dozen terrible possibilities. “Something the matter!” What suggestions in the simple words.
It was a relief, on entering the room, to see her mother seated on her usual chair. Pale, very pale, and looking all the more so from the reddened eyelids which told of recent and prolonged weeping. Stasy was kneeling on the floor beside her.
“Mamma, dearest,” said Blanche, “what is wrong? You are not ill? No, thank God – then it can’t be anything very dreadful.”
For there was a strange side of comfort in the isolated position of the little family. When they were all together and well – they had caught sight of Herty playing happily in the garden – nothing, as Blanche had said, “very dreadful” could be the matter. Still, something grievous and painful it must be, to have thus affected the usually cheerful mother; and again, before Mrs Derwent had time to reply, Blanche’s fancy had pictured every kind of possible and impossible catastrophe, except the actual fact.
Mrs Derwent tried to smile.
“You are right, Blanchie,” she said; “it is ‘Thank God,’ as we are all together. But read this.”
She held out a thick foreign letter, closely written in a clerkly hand which Blanche knew well. It was that of the lawyer at Bordeaux, Monsieur Bergeret, and though couched in a good deal of legal technicality, the general sense was not difficult to gather. The old and honourable house of “Derwent and Paulmier” was bankrupt – hopelessly ruined. Monsieur Bergeret, while expressing his deepest sympathy, held out no hopes of any retrieval of the misfortune.
“Mamma,” said Blanche, looking up with startled eyes, “what does it mean? How does it affect us?”
For she knew that, besides any practical bearing on themselves, the blow to her mother would be severe. Her husband’s and her father-in-law’s universally respected position had for more than half her lifetime been a source of natural pride to Mrs Derwent, and even now, though they were dead, their honourable name must be lowered.
But alas! it was worse than this.
“It means,” the mother replied quietly – “it means, my darlings, that we are ruined too. Our money had not been paid out. You remember my telling you that I was a little anxious about the delay; but nothing would have made any difference: they had not got it to pay. If Monsieur Bergeret had pressed them, it would only have hastened the declaration of insolvency. I understand it all. I have read the letter over and over again, since it came by the afternoon post. Dear me,” and she glanced at the pretty, quaint little French clock on the mantelpiece – “can it be only an hour ago? It came at three, and it is only just four. It seems years – years.”
Her voice seemed faint and dreamy. Blanche looked at her in some alarm. She was utterly exhausted for the moment.
“Mamma dear,” said Stasy, “it is impossible to take it all in at once; we must get used to it gradually. The first thing to attend to just now is you. You mustn’t make yourself ill about it, mamma.”
Blanche glanced at Stasy admiringly.
“Yes,” she said, “that is the first thing to care about. I am going down-stairs to see if tea is ready. Will you come down, mamma, or shall I bring you a cup up here?”
“I will come down,” said Mrs Derwent, adding to herself, in a voice which she tried to make firm: “I must begin to get used to it at once.”
Chapter Fifteen
Facing Things
Derwent did not fall ill, as her daughters feared. There was great elasticity, which was, in fact, a kind of strength, in her nature, as well as a rare amount of practical common sense, and before long these triumphed over the shock, which, it must be owned, was to her a tremendous one.
For she realised, as Blanche and Stasy could not be expected to do, the whole bearing upon their lives, of this unexpected change of fortune.
For a week or two, some amount of excitement necessarily mingled with her distress. For, though Monsieur Bergeret held out no hopes of anything being saved from the crash, he yet advised her to consult the English lawyer who had had charge of her interests at the time of her marriage, and of whom the French man of business entertained a high opinion.
So Mrs Derwent and Blanche went up to London by appointment, to meet this gentleman, and had a long talk with him. His view of things entirely tallied with that of Monsieur Bergeret, but he reassured Mrs Derwent on one or two minor points. What she had in the shape of furniture, plate, and so on, was absolutely hers, and could not, as she had vaguely feared, be touched by the creditors of the firm, of whom, indeed, she ranked as first. Furthermore, there still remained to her a trifling amount of income, all that was left of the little property she had inherited from her father, as it will be remembered that, owing to unwise investment, the late Mr Fenning’s capital had almost disappeared.
But anything was something in the present crisis. Even eighty pounds a year was a certainty to be thankful for.
“The best thing you can do, it seems to me,” said Mr Mapleson, at the close of the interview, “is to let your house as soon as possible, thus making sure of the rent for which you are liable: I forget the length of your lease?”
“Seven years in the first place,” replied Mrs Derwent. “You might let it furnished,” the lawyer went on; “that would give you fifty or sixty pounds a year more – not much. Furnished houses in the country don’t let for the rents they used to do, or you might have a sale, thus realising a little capital, till you have, as they say, time to turn round, and make some plan for the future. And” – he went on, with a little hesitation – “should you be short of funds at the present moment, pray do not hesitate to draw upon me. I wish with all my heart I could be of more use to you.”
“You are very kind, very kind and good,” said Mrs Derwent. “But I think I shall be able to manage for a little while. I will see the local house-agent at once, and put the house in his hands. I think I should prefer to be free from it altogether, if possible, and to have a sale.”
“Perhaps it would be best,” said Mr Mapleson. “Refer the agent to me in case of need. Furniture sometimes sells very well in the country.”
“We have some very pretty things,” said Blanche – “uncommon things, too; some good china that we brought from Bordeaux, and things like that.”
Her voice faltered a little as she spoke, and the old man glanced at her sympathisingly.
“What a charming girl!” he thought to himself. “Too pretty to be a governess or companion or anything of that kind.”
“I hope,” he said aloud, “that you will be able to keep your daughters with you, Mrs Derwent. I will talk it over with my wife; she has plenty of good sense, and if any idea strikes us, I will write to you. A school – a small, select school, for instance. Your daughters must have been well educated, though, no doubt, private schools do not succeed nowadays as they used to do.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs Derwent; “we must think it over.”
Then they said good-bye, and made their way back to the station again, feeling perhaps a trifle less depressed than on their arrival.
“Shall we stop at the agent’s on our way through Blissmore, do you think, Blanche?” said Mrs Derwent, as they were nearing the end of their railway journey. “We must drive out, I suppose,” she went on, with a rather wan smile, “though I want to begin those small economies at once.”
Blanche glanced at her. It was a hot, close day, and Mrs Derwent seemed very tired.
“It would be poor economy to begin by making ourselves ill,” said Blanche. “Of course we must drive. I will write to the house-agent to-night, if you will tell me exactly what to say, mamma. It will do quite as well as seeing him, and be far less disagreeable.”
Stasy was watching for them at their own gate as they drove up. She looked bright and eager.
“Tell the man not to drive in,” said Mrs Derwent; “we will get out here, poor Stasy looks so anxious to hear what we have got to say.”
“She looks as if she had something to tell us, I think,” said Blanche. “I must say her good spirits – for she is never low-spirited now – are a great blessing.”
“She doesn’t realise it,” said Mrs Derwent, with a little sigh. “But at sixteen what would you have? That in itself is a blessing.”
“Have you any news?” was Stasy’s first question? “You don’t look so – at least, not any worse than when you went away, except that you’re tired, of course, poor dears.”
“We have certainly nothing worse to tell you,” said Blanche cheerfully. “And one or two things are just a little better than we feared.” And she gave Stasy a rapid summary of their interview with Mr Mapleson.
“That’s all right,” said Stasy. “Come in: I have tea all ready for you in the library. I have some news for you; at least, something to tell you – two things. In the first place,” she went on, as she began pouring out tea, “I’ve had a visitor to-day. Nobody very exciting, but it may be a good thing. My visitor was Adela Bracy.”
“What did she come about?” said Blanche. “I hope they’re not beginning to think they may – well, take freedoms with us, just because we’ve lost our money.”
Blanche’s tone was a trifle bitter. She was tired, and she could not bear to see her mother’s pale face. For the moment, she and Stasy seemed to have changed characters.
“Take freedoms with us!” Stasy repeated. “Oh dear no! Poor Adela! if you had seen how she blushed and stammered over her errand.”
“And what was it?” asked Mrs Derwent, reviving a little, thanks to Stasy’s good cup of tea.
“She wanted to know,” said Stasy, “if her father might call to see you to-morrow morning, mamma, on business. They have heard, you know, about our trouble, because Blanche had to tell them that we couldn’t give the other guild treat that we had promised. You said it was best to be frank about it.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Mrs Derwent. “But both she and her cousin have been very good,” continued Stasy. “They have told no one at all till this morning, and then Adela thought it would be only right to let her father know, for our sake, and it was that that she was in such a fright about. She thought we might be vexed.”
“It doesn’t in the least matter who knows and who doesn’t, it seems to me,” said Blanche. “Besides, I have written to Lady Hebe, to tell her I should probably have to give up the guild work, and I made no secret of our troubles. But you’re so mysterious, Stasy: I wish you’d explain! What can it matter about old Mr Bracy knowing?”
“I’m coming to it,” said Stasy, “as fast as I can, if you wouldn’t interrupt. It’s about this house. You know, mamma, you said one day you thought we’d have to sell all our things, and I think anything would be better than that.”
“I’m afraid it will be the wisest thing to do, however,” said Mrs Derwent, rather dejectedly.
“No, mamma, perhaps not,” said Stasy. “What Adela’s father wants to see you about is this. He has a brother who has been out in India for a good many years – a rich man, Adela says – and he’s coming home almost immediately, with his wife and daughter, for a long holiday; and he wants Mr Bracy to find a furnished house close to theirs for a year, and it struck Adela that this might just do. She says they would take great care of everything, and, oh mamma! think how nice it would be to feel it was still ours, in case, you know, of some good luck turning up!”
Her mother smiled.
“My dear child, we mustn’t begin to hope for anything of that kind, I’m afraid,” she said. “It is better to face the reality. Still, no doubt, it would be very nice not to have to part with our things at once. A year from now, we should better know which of these we could keep. It was very kind and sensible of Adela Bracy to think of it, and I shall certainly be very glad to see her father. Can you send him a note to say so, Blanche? It seems to have been a very good thing that we have said nothing yet to the agent.”
“I will write at once,” said Blanche, rousing herself, for she felt that she had been yielding too much to her unusual depression.
She got up from her place and went towards the writing-table as she spoke.
“What’s the name of the Bracys’ house, Stasy – Green? – ”
“Green Nest,” replied Stasy.
“And will eleven o’clock be the best time, mamma?”
“Say any time that suits him, after ten,” Mrs Derwent replied.
She spoke more cheerfully. It really seemed as if this new proposal had come in the nick of time, and there was something infectious in Stasy’s hopefulness, little ground as there might appear for it.
“I suppose Miss Bracy said nothing about the rent her uncle would be likely to give?” asked Mrs Derwent.
Stasy shook her head.
“No,” she replied, “and I didn’t like to ask her, indeed I don’t think I should have understood about it; but she did say he was liberal and kind, as well as rich.”
“Of course I should not expect more than a fair sum,” said Mrs Derwent; “the fact of its being of great consequence to us cannot be taken into consideration. Still, it is much better to have to do with people of that character, and no doubt the house is now unusually attractive in many ways, all being in such perfect order.”
Blanche rang the bell, and gave orders for the note to be sent at once. Then she came back and sat down again.
“And what’s your second piece of news, Stasy?” she said. “You spoke of two.”
Stasy reddened a little.
“It wasn’t a piece of news,” she said. “It was an – an – ” And she hesitated.
“What?” asked her mother.
“I’m not quite sure,” Stasy replied. “I’m not quite sure but that it was an inspiration!”
Both Mrs Derwent and Blanche looked up.
“Do tell us,” said Blanche, but Stasy still hesitated.
“If you don’t mind, mamma dear,” she began, “I think I’d rather tell it to Blanchie alone first, and see what she thinks. You might be a little vexed with me. It may have a little to do with what Mr Bracy says to-morrow.”
“Very well, dear,” said Mrs Derwent. “I’m quite content to wait, and not to hear it at all, if you’d rather not tell me after consulting with Blanchie.”
She had not, perhaps, any very great faith in the practicability of Stasy’s inspirations, but she was delighted to see the girl rising with such unselfish cheerfulness to meet their difficulties.
“After all,” she said to herself, “troubles are often blessings in disguise. This may be the making of Stasy, and give her the stability she needs.”
Mr Bracy called the next morning, behaving with so much tact and consideration as to make it easy to forget his somewhat rough and ready manner, and his frequent oblivion of the letter “h.”
The terms he proposed, and which he felt sure his brother would endorse, seemed to Mrs Derwent fair and, indeed, liberal. But before committing herself to accept them, she wished to consult Mr Mapleson, a proposal which Mr Bracy at once agreed to. He was full of admiration of the house, more than once exclaiming that, as far as his brother was concerned, it was a wonderfully good chance.
“And I hope,” said Mrs Derwent, “indeed, I feel almost sure that I shall have cause to congratulate myself on meeting so readily with such an unexceptionable tenant.”
She spoke in the gracious and graceful way habitual to her, and the retired tradesman left her with feelings of warm sympathy and respect. Mrs Derwent had gained a friend.
Blanche and Stasy had not fallen asleep the night before without having fully discussed the younger girl’s idea.