"As bad as in Bosekop," murmured Britta, more to herself than to him, "only London is a larger place." Then raising her voice again, she said, "Perhaps there will be some people wicked enough to hate her ladyship, Morris?"
"I shouldn't wonder," said Morris philosophically. "I shouldn't wonder at all! There's a deal of hate about one way or another,--and if a lady is as beautiful as an angel, and cuts out everybody wherever she goes, why you can't expect the other ladies to be very fond of her. 'Tisn't in human nature--at least not in feminine human nature. Men don't care much about their looks, one way or the other, unless they're young chaps--then one has a little patience with them and they come all right."
But Britta had become meditative again. She went slowly up into her mistress's room and began arranging the few trifles that had been left in disorder.
"Just fancy!"--she said to herself--"some one may hate the Fröken even in London just as they hated her in Bosekop, because she is so unlike everybody else. I shall keep my eyes open,--and I shall soon find out any wickedness against her! My beautiful, dear darling! I believe the world is a cruel place after all,--but she shan't be made unhappy in it, if I can help it!"
And with this emphatic declaration, she kissed a little shoe of Thelma's that she was just putting by--and, smoothing her curls, went down to her supper.