thirty pounds a year, she had, to use a commercial phrase, obtained the
option on her every waking hour, and indeed, during the last year of her
life, she had extended this option to cover many of the hours which
should have been dedicated to rest and sleep.

All the fine plans that the young Nora had made while journeying down
from London to Tunbridge Wells, for going on with her music, improving
herself in French and perhaps taking up another modern language, in her
leisure hours, had been nipped in the bud before she had been an inmate
of Miss Wickham's house many days. She had no leisure hours. Miss
Wickham saw to that. She had apparently an abhorrence for her own
unrelieved society that amounted to a positive mania. She must never be
left alone. Let Nora but escape to her own little room in the vain hope
of obtaining a few moments to herself, and Kate, the parlor maid, was
certain to be sent after her.

"Miss Wickham's compliments and she was waiting to be read to." "Miss
Wickham's compliments, but did Miss Marsh know that the horses were at
the door?" "Miss Wickham's compliments, and should she have Kate set out
the backgammon board?"

And upon the rare occasions when there was company in the house, Miss
Wickham's ingenuity in providing occupation for dear Miss Marsh, while
she was herself occupied with her friends, was inexhaustible. In an evil
hour Nora had confessed to a modest talent for washing lace. Miss
Wickham, it developed, had a really fine collection of beautiful pieces
which naturally required the most delicate handling. Their need for
being washed was oddly coincident with the moment when the expected
guest arrived at the door.