trained smile and the throaty voice, the sweet expression which Mrs. Weatherby exhibited to the world—all these were bought at a cost, paid in the beginning by Alonzo Weatherby and after his death by Miss Fosdick. All her ill temper was poured out upon their heads.
She observed to Miss Fosdick that Father d'Astier was a devout and charming man, that the Principessa was a woman of great distinction and that Mr. Winnery (although he had scarcely uttered a word) was a man of great intelligence.
"We must do something about the villa," she said, "now that we have begun to receive people."
She watched Miss Fosdick. She had a way of watching her companion as if to measure how much she might be told, for one could not afford to betray oneself to a companion. But as both grew older Miss Fosdick appeared to notice less and less what happened about her. She was, after all, (reflected Mrs. Weatherby) a perfect companion, docile and admiring, never intruding her own personality, and, most important of all, she was a companion who could not quit her place. Miss Fosdick no longer even gave in to those fits of hysterical weeping which had been so trying, or if she did weep, she wept in private where it would not disturb anyone. "What would the poor lamb have done without me?" thought Mrs. Weatherby. "She would have been helpless in this world, probably doing sewing by the day in Winnebago Falls. She is only a child, after all."
They sat in the grand salon with the superb view over the valley because as yet there was no furniture
