’How could I make friends with nice people when I was ashamed to have them at home?  The best I know are quite poor—­girls I went to school with.  They’re much better educated than I am, but they make their own living, and so I can’t see very much of them, and I’m not sure they want to see much of me.  I wish I knew what people think of me; they call me vulgar, I believe—­the kind I’m speaking of.  Now, do tell me, Mrs. Mumford, am I vulgar?’

‘My dear Miss Derrick—­’ Emmeline began in protest, but was at once interrupted.

’Oh! that isn’t what I want.  You must call me Louise, or Lou, if you like, and just say what you really think.  Yes, I see, I am rather vulgar, and what can you expect?  Look at mother; and if you saw Mr. Higgins, oh!  The mistake I made was to leave school so soon.  I got sick of it, and left at sixteen, and of course the idiots at home—­I mean the foolish people—­let me have my own way.  I’m not clever, you know, and I didn’t get on well at school.  They used to say I could do much better if I liked, and perhaps it was more laziness than stupidity, though I don’t care for books—­I wish I did.  I’ve had lots of friends, but I never keep them for very long.  I don’t know whether it’s their fault or mine.  My oldest friends are Amy Barker and Muriel Featherstone; they were both at the school at Clapham, and now Amy does type-writing in the City, and Muriel is at a photographer’s.  They’re awfully nice girls, and t like them so much; but then, you see, they haven’t enough money to live in what I call a nice way, and, you know, I should never think of asking them to advise me about my dresses, or anything of that kind.  A friend of mine once began to say something and I didn’t like it; after that we had nothing to do with each other.’

Emmeline could not hide her amusement.

‘Well, that’s just it,’ went on the other frankly.  ’I have rather a sharp temper, and I suppose I don’t get on well with most people.  I used to quarrel dreadfully with some of the girls at school—­the uppish sort.  And yet all the time I wanted to be friends with them.  But, of course, I could never have taken them home.’

Mrs. Mumford began to read the girl’s character, and to understand how its complexity had shaped her life.  She was still uneasy as to the impression this guest would make upon their friends, but on the whole it seemed probable that Louise would conscientiously submit herself to instruction, and do her very best to be “nice.”  Clarence’s opinion was still favourable; he pronounced Miss Derrick “very amusing,” and less of a savage than his wife’s description had led him to expect.