"I am a cheat, an impostor. I haven't a penny in the world. You will be paid up to the end of the Christmas holidays, and then you will never see me any more. I have got to provide my own living somehow. I suppose I'll manage best as a nursery governess; but I don't know anything really well." Brenda, however, would not encourage any such lawless action. "We won't say a word about it," said Brenda, "until after Christmas Day." She gave forth this mandate when the girls were in their room preparing for dinner. "Oh," said Florence; "it will kill me to keep it a secret for so long!" "It won't kill you," replied Brenda, "for you will have me to talk it over with." "But she'll go on asking us questions," said Florence. "She will want to know where we are going after the holidays; if we are going to stay on with her, or what is to happen; and unless we tell her a lot of lies, I don't see how we are to escape telling her the truth. It is all dreadful from first to last; but I think having to keep it a secret from Mrs Fortescue is about the most terrible part of all." "It is the part you feel most at the present time," said Brenda. "It is a merciful dispensation that we cannot realise everything that is happening just at the moment it happens. It is only by degrees that we get to realise the full extent of our calamities." "I suppose it is a calamity," said Florence, opening her bright eyes very wide. "Somehow, at the present moment I don't feel anything at all about it except rather excited; and there are eighty pounds left. Eighty pounds ought to go far, oughtn't they? Oughtn't they to go far, Brenda?" "No," said Brenda; "they won't go far at all." "But I can't make out why. We could go into small lodgings and live quite by ourselves and lead the simple life. There is so much written now about the simple life. I have read many books lately in which very clever men say that we eat far too much, and that, after all, what we really need is abundance of fresh air and so many hours for sleep and very plain food. I was reading a book not long ago which described a man who had exactly twenty pounds on which he intended to live for a whole year. He paid two and sixpence a week for his room and about as much more for his food, and he was very healthy and very happy. Now, if we did the same sort of thing, we could live both of us quite comfortably for two years on our eighty pounds." "And then," said Brenda, "what would happen at the end of that time?" "Oh, I should be married by then," said Florence, "and you would come and live with me, of course, you old darling."