Mrs. Linley showed some hesitation.  What would the governess think of her mother?  Perfectly careless of what the governess might think, Mrs. Presty crossed the room and introduced herself.

“Miss Westerfield, I am Mrs. Linley’s mother.  And I am, in one respect, a remarkable person.  When I form an opinion and find it’s the opinion of a fool, I am not in the least ashamed to change my mind.  I have changed my mind about you.  Shake hands.”

Sydney respectfully obeyed.

“Sit down again.”  Sydney returned to her chair.

“I had the worst possible opinion of you,” Mrs. Presty resumed, “before I had the pleasure of listening on the other side of the curtain.  It has been my good fortune—­what’s your Christian name?  Did I hear it? or have I forgotten it?  ‘Sydney,’ eh?  Very well.  I was about to say, Sydney, that it has been my good fortune to be intimately associated, in early life, with two remarkable characters.  Husbands of mine, in short, whose influence over me has, I am proud to say, set death and burial at defiance.  Between them they have made my mind the mind of a man.  I judge for myself.  The opinions of others (when they don’t happen to agree with mine) I regard as chaff to be scattered to the winds.  No, Catherine, I am not wandering.  I am pointing out to a young person, who has her way to make in the world, the vast importance, on certain occasions, of possessing an independent mind.  If I had been ashamed to listen behind those curtains, there is no injury that my stupid prejudices might not have inflicted on this unfortunate girl.  As it is, I have heard her story, and I do her justice.  Count on me, Sydney, as your friend, and now get up again.  My grandchild (never accustomed to wait for anything since the day when she was born) is waiting dinner for you.  She is at this moment shouting for her governess, as King Richard (I am a great reader of Shakespeare) once shouted for his horse.  The maid (you will recognize her as a stout person suffering under tight stays) is waiting outside to show you the way to the nursery. Au revoir. Stop!  I should like to judge the purity of your French accent.  Say ‘au revoir’ to me.  Thank you.—­Weak in her French, Catherine,” Mrs. Presty pronounced, when the door had closed on the governess; “but what can you expect, poor wretch, after such a life as she has led?  Now we are alone, I have a word of advice for your private ear.  We have much to anticipate from Miss Westerfield that is pleasant and encouraging.  But I don’t conceal it from myself or from you, we have also something to fear.”

“To fear?” Mrs. Linley repeated.  “I don’t understand you.”

“Never mind, Catherine, whether you understand me or not.  I want more information.  Tell me what your husband said to you about this young lady?”

Wondering at the demon of curiosity which appeared to possess her mother, Mrs. Linley obeyed.  Listening throughout with the closest attention, Mrs. Presty reckoned up the items of information, and pointed the moral to be drawn from them by worldly experience.