CHAPTER X

_LADY KNOLLYS REMOVES A COVERLET_


Lady Knollys pursued her enquiries.

'And why does not Madame make your dresses, my dear? I wager a guinea the
woman's a milliner. Did not she engage to make your dresses?'

'I--I really don't know; I rather think not. She is my governess--a
finishing governess, Mrs. Rusk says.'

'Finishing fiddle! Hoity-toity! and my lady's too grand to cut out your
dresses and help to sew them? And what _does_ she do? I venture to say
she's fit to teach nothing but devilment--not that she has taught _you_
much, my dear--_yet_ at least. I'll see her, my dear; where is she? Come,
let us visit Madame. I should so like to talk to her a little.'

'But she is ill,' I answered, and all this time I was ready to cry for
vexation, thinking of my dress, which must be very absurd to elicit so much
unaffected laughter from my experienced relative, and I was only longing to
get away and hide myself before that handsome Captain returned.

'Ill! is she? what's the matter?'

'A cold--feverish and rheumatic, she says.'