Flo wondered what “menial” meant. It sounded mean, and the Vicar’s wife’s talk now made her feel meaner and smaller than before. She glanced to the square bay, but it had been made into an arbour for tall ferns, and grey chenille curtains kept out most of the rest of the light, so that there was no relief there. When her attention came back, Mrs. Howell was saying:
“. . . I know that it may seem to be a long time for a girl to have to go on paying, but it enables her to start right, and a good start is half the battle, as my Husband is always reminding us. And all the six months, of course, she has the privilege of wearing good clothes. Isn’t that an awfully good idea don’t you think, Miss Royer? But I know you do.”
Flo was relieved not to have to answer.
“I suppose, though, mum, that she’ll have something just to be going on with?”
“Two shillings a week,” said Mrs. Howell very graciously, “and most of that she will be able to save, I expect. You see, with clothes and all her food, what more can she require? It will give her a good opportunity to practise that other great virtue, it will teach her the Value of Thriftiness . . . too much makes us all wasters . . . waste not, want not, you know, my dear,” she concluded, turning towards Flo and motioning for her to come closer. “Let me give you a kiss, dear, and be sure, if there is any way in which you think the Vicar or I may help you, that we shall be perfectly happy to do it, won’t we, Mrs. Royer?”
“I’m sure, mum. You always does.”
Then came the kiss. Mrs. Howell’s lips were thick and soft and rather surprisingly warm and seemed to leave a wet blob on Flo’s cheek, so that she felt that she wanted to mop it at once.
“It was so thoughtful and kind of you to bring her to see me before sending her away,” Mrs. Howell called after them. “Don’t forget to close the door behind you, Milly.”
Mrs. Royer obediently shut it.
“The stuck-up frump,” said Flo. “I . . .”
“Ssh,” interrupted her mother urgently. “She’s very good, she is, an’ as she says, you ought to be . . . er, you ought to do as she’s told you. But for her you wouldn’t have all them things.”
“Way she talked, she might be giving them . . .”
“Don’t let cook hear,” Mrs. Royer broke in, following her through the heavy lobby door. “I bet she’s wonderin’. She’ll be trying to find out all day,” and a chuckle in the gloom of the back passage told Flo that her mother would be happy for the rest of the morning, anyway.
Sunday afternoon and evening passed quickly. So well did Flo’s things suit her that everybody that knew her responded at once with open, pleased admiration, or ill-hidden jealousy, both of which Flo could enjoy. The feelings of meanness and littleness of the morning she escaped from. Most jealous of all was Ivy, who, of course, had to try everything. Ivy had a natural grace which let her look well in almost anything; Flo was somewhat stumpy and generally hard to suit. But for once the navy blue costume was too stiff and sober for Ivy’s untidy beauty, though exactly right for the more staid Flo.
“Well, if you don’t land a feller in that, you’re a wet hen,” said Ivy. “I bet I wouldn’t be long skivvying, anyway.”