The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands. Miss Charvill. Capes stood side by side upon an old Persian carpet that did duty as a hearthrug in the dining-room of their flat and surveyed a shining dinner-table set for four people, lit by skilfully-shaded electric lights, brightened by frequent gleams of silver, and carefully and simply adorned with sweet-pea blossom. ‘Do you know, Mademoiselle Charvill, you are a thought too clever for your own good. " The feminine vanities in Ruth were quiescent; nothing had ever occurred in her life to tingle them into action.
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