White is proud of her drawing-room evenings. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. There sprang from that a vague hope that perhaps she might extort a capitulation from her father by a threat to seek that position, and then with overwhelming clearness it came to her that whatever happened she would never be able to tell her father about her debt. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. ” “I suppose not. ” “But how?” He was, she thought, a little too insistent. ‘How do you know?’ ‘Exactly,’ pounced Roding bitterly. ” “And what do you think I ought to do?” “Exactly!” He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. “You could have a talk to Miss Kitty Brett this afternoon, if you liked. She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. After all, this could never be the black sheep. Or run me through.
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