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Updated: May 11, 2025
"That is natural, perhaps, with an only child, left to him in such peculiarly sad circumstances. We must not judge him hardly for that," said little Mrs Ramsden, kindly. "Has the girl herself ever written to you before, may I ask, or is this her first communication?" Miss Briskett's back stiffened, and her thin lips set in a straight line.
As a rule the domestic wheel turned on oiled wheels and Miss Briskett's existence flowed on its even course, from one year's end to another, with little but the weather to differentiate one month from another, but on the day on which this history begins, a thunderbolt had fallen in the shape of a letter bearing a New York post-mark, which the postman handed in at the door of The Nook at the three o'clock delivery.
"Thank goodness, that old cat's not coming!" was Madame's invariable reception of the refusals, but at the bottom of her heart she resented the fact that so insignificant a person should dare to reject her hospitality. "Miss Briskett's niece. Really! How ver-ry interesting!" she drawled, in a tone eloquent of the most superlative indifference.
Relationships between the aunt and niece were still a trifle strained; that is to say, they were strained on Miss Briskett's side; Cornelia's knack of relapsing into her natural manner on the very heels of a heated altercation seemed somehow an additional offence, since it placed one under the imputation of being sulky, whereas, of course, one was exhibiting only a dignified reserve!
"I'm here, and it's too quaint for words! Everything's different! I suppose England is different, isn't it, Aunt Soph?" "Very different!" Miss Briskett's tones fairly bubbled with innuendoes. She put down her rolled slice of bread and butter, and added frostily, "Before we go any further, Cornelia, I must really beg you to address me by my proper name. My name is Sophia.
It looks exceedingly like but it could not be, it could not possibly be, Miss Briskett's niece! ..." Miss Briskett's niece chuckled, and turned her head to look up the sloping path. Her choice of position had been largely decided by the fact that Elma Ramsden was due to return by this route from a weekly music lesson somewhere about the present time.
"I'd as soon stroke a nettle myself," said the cook, "but there's no accounting for taste! You take my word for it, if she goes on stroking much longer, she'll get a sting as she won't forget in a hurry!" Upstairs in the drawing-room, Miss Briskett's fidgeting uncomfortably beneath that caressing hand.
Elma Ramsden and I have fixed up a drive to see the country, Thursday afternoon." Miss Briskett's knitting-needles clinked irritably together. A half concession was little better than none, and the frivolous tone of Cornelia's remarks spoke of something far removed from the ideal repentance.
Miss Briskett tore it open, and read the following message: "Safe and sound. Staying night in London with friends. Sight-seeing to-morrow morning. Be with you at five. God save the Queen! Cornelia." Miss Briskett's lips tightened. She folded the orange-coloured paper and returned it to its envelope, cleared her throat and said coldly
"Ellen Bean Ramsden." "The best china, Mason, and a teapot for two!" was Miss Briskett's order on receipt of this cordial response, and an hour later the two ladies sat in conclave over a daintily-spread table in the drawing-room of The Nook.
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