The Paying Guest | Page 9

ago with the sort of people you wish to
know? It isn't as if you were in poor circumstances.'
'How could I make friends with nice people when I was ashamed to
have them at home? The best I know are quite poor--girls I went to
school with. They're much better educated than I am, but they make
their own living, and so I can't see very much of them, and I'm not sure
they want to see much of me. I wish I knew what people think of me;
they call me vulgar, I believe--the kind I'm speaking of. Now, do tell
me, Mrs. Mumford, am I vulgar?'

'My dear Miss Derrick--' Emmeline began in protest, but was at once
interrupted.
'Oh! that isn't what I want. You must call me Louise, or Lou, if you like,
and just say what you really think. Yes, I see, I am rather vulgar, and
what can you expect? Look at mother; and if you saw Mr. Higgins, oh!
The mistake I made was to leave school so soon. I got sick of it, and
left at sixteen, and of course the idiots at home--I mean the foolish
people--let me have my own way. I'm not clever, you know, and I
didn't get on well at school. They used to say I could do much better if I
liked, and perhaps it was more laziness than stupidity, though I don't
care for books--I wish I did. I've had lots of friends, but I never keep
them for very long. I don't know whether it's their fault or mine. My
oldest friends are Amy Barker and Muriel Featherstone; they were both
at the school at Clapham, and now Amy does type-writing in the City,
and Muriel is at a photographer's. They're awfully nice girls, and t like
them so much; but then, you see, they haven't enough money to live in
what I call a nice way, and, you know, I should never think of asking
them to advise me about my dresses, or anything of that kind. A friend
of mine once began to say something and I didn't like it; after that we
had nothing to do with each other.'
Emmeline could not hide her amusement.
'Well, that's just it,' went on the other frankly. 'I have rather a sharp
temper, and I suppose I don't get on well with most people. I used to
quarrel dreadfully with some of the girls at school--the uppish sort. And
yet all the time I wanted to be friends with them. But, of course, I could
never have taken them home.'
Mrs. Mumford began to read the girl's character, and to understand how
its complexity had shaped her life. She was still uneasy as to the
impression this guest would make upon their friends, but on the whole
it seemed probable that Louise would conscientiously submit herself to
instruction, and do her very best to be "nice." Clarence's opinion was
still favourable; he pronounced Miss Derrick "very amusing," and less
of a savage than his wife's description had led him to expect.

Having the assistance of two servants and a nurse-girl, Emmeline was
not overburdened with domestic work. She soon found it fortunate that
her child, a girl of two years old, needed no great share of her attention;
for Miss Derrick, though at first she affected an extravagant interest in
the baby, very soon had enough of that plaything, and showed a
decided preference for Emmeline's society out of sight and hearing of
nursery affairs. On the afternoon of the second day they went together
to call upon Mrs. Fentiman, who lived at a distance of a quarter of an
hour's walk, in a house called "Hazeldene"; a semi-detached house,
considerably smaller than "Runnymede," and neither without nor
within so pleasant to look upon. Mrs. Fentiman, a tall, hard-featured,
but amiable lady, had two young children who occupied most of her
time; at present one of them was ailing, and the mother could talk of
nothing else but this distressing circumstance. The call lasted only for
ten minutes, and Emmeline felt that her companion was disappointed.
'Children are a great trouble,' Louise remarked, when they had left the
house. 'People ought never to marry unless they can keep a lot of
servants. Not long ago I was rather fond of somebody, but I wouldn't
have him because he had no money. Don't you think I was quite right?'
'I have no doubt you were.'
'And now,' pursued the girl, poking the ground with her sunshade as
she walked, 'there's somebody else. And that's one of the things I want
to tell you about. He has about three hundred a year. It isn't much, of
course; but I suppose Mr. Higgins would give me something. And