“The fact is, we’re as poor as church mice,” said Beatrice one day.
“Indeed, I think we’re poorer, because the mouse we saw in church last Sunday, that scared Winnie so,
was very fat and sleek and prosperous-looking, and didn’t bear out the old saying at all.”
For the last four years, ever since pretty Mrs Maurice Gascoyne had gently laid down the burden that had grown too heavy for her,
Beatrice had been the clever, energetic “mother” of the establishment.
She managed the house,
and the children,
and the one maid,
and the parish,
and her father,
all included,
with a business-like capacity far in advance of her twenty years.
She was a fine-looking girl, tall and straight-limbed and ample,
with blue eyes and dark brows,
and a clear creamy skin, and that air of noble strength about her which the Greek sculptors gave to their statues of Artemis.