Veale drew
such a breath of horror that the hair of the late Canon rose in its
locket.
"What on earth can you mean, Loveday Strick?"
Thus Mrs. Veale, justly outraged. But Loveday, infatuated, rushed upon
her fate--the fate of expulsion from those precincts.
"Oh, ma'am, 'tis no manner of use to me unless I get work before the
Flora. The Flora, ma'am" (repeating the beloved name as an invocation
in time of trouble).
"'Tis this way, I must get a white satin sash come Flora Day, 'cause
if I do I'm to dance along with Miss Le Pettit in the procession.
She's promised me that I should, and indeed I'll die if I don't. I will
indeed. I've fixed my soul on it. I've got the gown and the stockings
and the shoes, and all I want is the white riband, and I must someways
make enough money to buy it come Flora Day. Oh, Mrs. Veale, ma'am, if
you'll let me scrub and scour for you I'll do it on my knees so as only
I can dance with her in the Flora."
During this speech Mrs. Veale had risen to the full height and width of
the black silk, feeling that thus only could she cope adequately with
such a flood of ill-regulated and unseemly passions. She felt deeply
wounded to think that any girl of her teaching should so betray it as
this one did in every undisciplined word. She had not felt such a bitter
stab of disappointment since a trusted and loved old nurse of the family
had been found drinking the Vicar's port.
"Loveday Strick," she said, "you are forgetting yourself.
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