She bustled upstairs, and crossing the landing turned into the schoolroom passage—­a long, lamp-lit vista, hung with old Chinese wall-paper, the running pattern of buds and flowers, large out of all proportion to the bridges, palms, pagodas and groups of little purple and blue-clad men and women disposed, in dwindling perspective, upon its once white surface.  Half-way along the passage, their backs towards her, Mary and Mrs. Cooper, the cook—­a fair, mild middle-aged, and cow-like person, of ample proportions—­stood conversing in smothered tones.

“And it’s my belief he’s been and told her, or anyhow that she guesses, pore dear young lady,” the latter, with upraised hands, lamented.

Theresa just caught these strange words.  Caught too, Mary’s hurried rejoinder—­“For mercy’s sake, Mrs. Cooper, not a hint of that to any living soul”—­before the two women, sensible of the swish and patter of her self-important entry, turned and moved forward to meet, or—­could it be?—­to intercept her.  Their faces bore a singular expression, in Mrs. Cooper’s case of sloppy, in Mary’s of stern yet vivid alarm.  Deeply engaged though she was with her private grievance, Miss Bilson could not but observe this.  It made her nervous.

“What is the meaning,” she began, her voice shrill with agitation, “of the extraordinary story about Miss Damaris which Laura reports to me?  Someone is evidently very much in fault.”

“Please don’t speak quite so loud, Miss,” Mary firmly admonished her.  “I’ve just got Miss Damaris quieted off to sleep, and if she’s roused up again, I won’t answer for what mayn’t happen.”

“But what has happened?  I insist upon knowing,” Theresa declared, in growing offence and agitation.

“Ah! that’s just what we should be thankful enough to have you tell us, Miss,” Mrs. Cooper chimed in with heavy and reproachful emphasis upon the pronouns.

To even the mild and cow-like revenge is sweet.  Though honestly distressed and scared, the speaker entertained a most consoling conviction she was at this moment getting even with Theresa Bilson and cleverly paying off old scores.

“The pore dear young lady’s caught her death as likely as not, out there across the river in the wet, let alone some sneaking rascal making off with her stockings and shoes.  When I saw her little naked feet, all blue with the cold, it made my heart bleed, regularly bleed, it did.  I could only give thanks her Nanna, pore Mrs. Watson, who worshipped the very ground Miss Damaris trod on, was spared living to see that afflicting sight.”

Then with a change of tone exasperating—­as it was designed to be—­to one, at least, of her hearers, she added: 

“I’ll have that soup ready against Miss Damaris wakes, Mary, in case she should fancy it.  Just touch the bell, will you, and I’ll bring it up myself.  It’s not suitable to give either of the girls a chance for prying.  They’re a deal too curious as it is.  And I’m only too pleased to watch with you, turn and turn about, as I told you, whenever you feel to require a rest.  Lizzie will have to see to the cooking anyhow—­except what’s wanted for Miss Damaris.  I couldn’t put my mind into kitchen work to-night, not if you paid me ever so.”