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The governess nodded importantly, “She was only a cook before she came here,” she declared contemptuously. “Down at the Employment Agency, where Madam got her, they said so. The common, two-faced thing!” This last was said with much vindictiveness. Following it, she proffered Thomas the cake-plate.

“Thanks,” said he; “I don’t mind if I do have a slice.”

Now, of a sudden, wrath and resentment possessed Gwendolyn, sweeping her like a wave—at seeing her cake portioned out; at having her kicking ignored; at hearing these two openly abuse Jane.

“I want some strawberries,” she stormed, pounding the rug full force. “And an egg. I won’t eat dry bread!” Bang! Bang! Bang!

Miss Royle half-turned. “Did you ask to go down to the library?” she inquired. She seemed totally undisturbed; yet her eyes glittered.

“Did she ask?” snorted Thomas. “She’s gettin’ very forward, she is.”

“No, you knew better,” went on Miss Royle. “You knew I wouldn’t permit you to bother your father when he didn’t want you—”

“He did want me!”—choking with a sob.

“Think,” resumed the governess, inflecting her tones eloquently, “of the fortune he spends on your dresses, and your pony, and your beautiful car! And he hires all of us”—she swept a gesture—”to wait on you, you naughty girl, and try to make a little lady out of you—”

“I hate ladies!” cried Gwendolyn, rapping her heels by way of emphasis.

“Tale-bearing is vulgar,” asserted Miss Royle.

“Next year I’m going to day-school like Johnnie Blake!“

“Oh, hush your nonsense!” commanded Thomas, irritably.

Miss Royle glanced up at him. “That will do,” she snapped.

He bridled up. “What the little imp needs is a good paddlin’,” he declared.

“Well, you have nothing to do with the disciplining of the child. That is my business.”

“It’s what she needs, all the same. The very idear of her bawlin’ all the mornin’ at the top of her lungs—”

“I did not at the top of my lungs,” contradicted Gwendolyn. “I cried with my mouth.”

“—So’s the whole house can hear,” continued Thomas; “and beatin’ about the floor. It’s clear shameful, I say, and enough to give a sensitive person the nerves. As I remarked to Jane only—-“

“You remark too many things to Jane,” interposed the governess, curtly.

Now he sobered. “I hope you ain’t displeased with me,” he ventured.

“Ain’t displeased?” repeated Miss Royle, more than ever fretful. “Oh, Thomas, do stop murdering the King’s English!”

At that Gwendolyn sat up, shook back her hair, and raised a startled face to the row of toys in the glass-fronted case. Murdering the King’s English! Had he dared to harm her soldier with the scarlet coat?

“I was urgin’ your betterin’, too, Miss Royle,” reminded Thomas, gently. “I says to Jane, I says—”

The soldier was in his place, safe. Relieved, Gwendolyn straightened out once more on her back.

“—’The whole lot of us ought to be paid higher wages than we’re gettin’ for it’s a real trial to have to be under the same roof with such a provokin’—'”

Miss Royle interrupted by vigorously bobbing her head. “Oh, that I have to make my living in this way!” she exclaimed, voice deep with mournfulness. “I’d rather wash dishes! I’d rather scrub floors! I’d rather star-r-ve!“

Something in the vehemence, or in the cadence, of Miss Royle’s declaration again gave Gwendolyn that sense of triumph. With a sudden curling up of her small nose, she giggled.

Miss Royle whirled with a rustle of silk skirts. “Gwendolyn,” she said threateningly, “if you’re going to act like that, I shall know there’s something the matter with you, and I shall certainly call a doctor.”

Gwendolyn lay very still. As Thomas glanced down at her, smirking exultantly, her smile went, and the pink of wrath once more surged into her face.

“And the doctor’ll give nasty medicine,” declared Thomas, “or maybe he’ll cut out your appendix!”

“Potter won’t let him.”

“Potter! Huh!—He’ll cut out your appendix, and charge your papa a thousand dollars. Oh, you bet, them that’s naughty always pays the piper.”

Gwendolyn got to her feet. “I won’t pay the piper,” she retorted. “I’m going to give all my money to the hand-organ man—all of it. I like him,” tauntingly. “But I hate—you.”

“We hate a sneak,” observed Miss Royle, blandly.

The little figure went rigid. “And I hate you,” she cried shrilly. Then buried her face in her hands.