Imogen: or, Only Eighteen

Chapter Four
As Ill-Luck would have it

Major Winchester did not reply. He appeared engrossed with Paddy, for as Imogen uttered the last words, they had driven to the front of the house, and he was preparing to draw up.

“I don’t quite know how best to manage,” he said, after a moment or two, glancing round him doubtfully. “Paddy has been very good, so far; but he will probably begin now to be fidgety, and to long for his stable. So I must not get down to ring. Can – ?”

“Oh yes,” said the girl, starting up as she spoke, and very nearly precipitating herself to the ground, “I’ll jump down in an instant.”

“Get down, please, but don’t talk of jumping. There now, very cautiously. It needs an apprenticeship to get out and in of vehicles like this. Yes, that is the bell, the chain at your right;” and a ponderous resounding clang told that Miss Wentworth’s vigorous pull had taken effect. Imogen looked round half alarmed.

“What a noise!” she said.

It was not too quickly responded to, nevertheless, and when a footman at last made his appearance, he raised his eyebrows with an expression of surprised inquiry, which would not have conduced to the two ladies’ equanimity had they been alone and unprotected by Major Winchester’s presence.

“Quick, Thomas,” he said, with a touch of imperiousness. “Call some one, or catch hold of his head yourself. Don’t you see the horse won’t stand, and the lady has to get down?”

Thomas bestirred himself to the extent of hallooing to an assistant gardener, who happened to be passing; then, when Paddy’s impatience was perforce calmed, he himself condescended to approach the back of the cart in a gingerly fashion. But Major Winchester was before him.

“I will help Mrs Wentworth down,” he said.

“Go at once and tell your mistress, or – or Miss Florence – no, unluckily, she’s out – Miss Helmont, if you can find her, that Mrs and Miss Wentworth have arrived by an earlier train. And tell Brewer to speak to me before he goes to the station; there’s some luggage to come up.”

Most of The Fells domestics liked “the Major,” as he was dubbed in the servants’ hall; but Thomas, lazy and conceited, was an exception. He disappeared, however, as he was told, but not without some inaudible mutterings.

“Queerish ladies,” he said to himself, “arriving before lunch and no luggage, nor maid, nor nothing. The luggage won’t be much to show when it do come, I’ll take my – ” But here he was interrupted, and by no less a person than Trixie. Thomas’s face cleared: he wasn’t going to scour the country in search of Mrs Helmont, nor Miss neither. Here was one of the ladies; it did not in the least signify that Miss Beatrix was a byword for never doing anything she was asked to do, or being of any use to any one. She would serve his purpose, which was to get back to his morning paper and glass of beer “comfortable” in the pantry without delay.

“If you please, ma’am,” he began, “the Major’s at the hall door with two ladies, arrived unexpected, and I was to tell you.”

To his delight and rather to his surprise, instead of telling him to hunt up her sisters, Trixie stopped short with evident interest.

“Two ladies?” she inquired. “Did you hear their name? And did Major Winchester tell you to find me?”

Thomas was obliged to equivocate.

“Not – not exactly yourself persinly, ma’am, but one of the ladies.”

“All right, I’ll go at once,” and Beatrix, enchanted at the first act in the drama opening so auspiciously, rushed off.

“Of course it’s the girl and her mother, I’m sure of it, just because Rex evidently didn’t mean me,” she said to herself. “Mab shan’t be able to say I’m stupid; I won’t tell her how it happened, and she’ll be all the more impressed by my cleverness when she sees me hand and glove with the little fool at the very first go.” She looked very handsome and attractive as, moderating her rate of progress, she approached the front hall. It was a large square room, with corners screened off, containing couches and tables invitingly grouped. There were two fireplaces, in which for many months in the year great logs were always to be seen in glowing cheeriness. There was the usual display of antlered heads and stuffed glassy-eyed reynards and other trophies of the kind. To Imogen, new to English country life on this scale, it was entrancing, and as Beatrix in her trim sailor-blue serge, with wavy dark hair and the brilliant Helmont complexion and eyes, appeared at the curtained doorway, an unusual gentleness, almost appeal, in her expression and bearing, the poor little stranger’s heart went out to her with a great leap. Considerably to his surprise, much more considerably to his disgust, when Rex Winchester turned round from his instructions to Brewer on the hall steps, the two girls were, so to say, already in each other’s arms – literally speaking, they were just concluding their greeting with a kiss, while Mrs Wentworth stood by in smiling approval.

“Yes,” she said. “I was sure I was right, and you are baby Beatrix; just – let me see – two years and a few weeks older than Imogen.”

“How interesting!” said Trixie sweetly. “We must be great friends, must we not?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Imogen. “I’m so glad to have seen you first, as you are so much the nearest me in – ”

“Is Alicia not in, Trixie?” interrupted Major Winchester. “I sent for her.”

His tone was dry, to say the least. Beatrix turned away for half a second: he did not see the flash of rage and malice in her eyes – she had calmed it down before she replied in the same soft, almost timid tones.

“I don’t know, I’m sure. Florence is out. I daresay Alicia’s resting: she generally is at this time of day.”

“And every other,” thought her cousin.

“What mischief in Heaven’s name is the girl up to now?” he went on to himself. Then half shocked at his suspiciousness he glanced at her sharply: she had not anticipated this and her eyes fell. “I knew it could not be sincere,” he thought, with a curious mixture of regret and satisfaction.

“I knew Florence was out,” he said aloud.

“But before hunting up mamma or Alicia, had I not better take our guests to the morning-room?” said Beatrix prettily.

And Rex could not oppose so natural a suggestion.

Mrs Helmont was not in the morning-room. Truth to tell, she had dedicated the hours before luncheon to-day to some necessary household discussions with her upper servants.

“The Meldons will have gone, and the Wentworths not coming till nice and late in the afternoon,” she had said to herself with satisfaction; “all the other people can be left to themselves – not like strangers.”

So that, in spite of her really friendly feelings to the mother and daughter – her own peculiar guests indeed – it can easily be understood that the announcement of their premature arrival was not a joyful one in her ears.

“Come!” she repeated to the maid who had disinterred her and the old housekeeper in the linen-room, where she was really enjoying herself, “you don’t say so. At this time of day! it is too provoking. My cap is all on one side, I’m certain, and we were just getting into the new pillow-cases, Baxter. The girls will be so put out too. And Florence gone for me to Culvey! Alicia is sure to be asleep. I must go – it will all have to stand over, Baxter; you must put everything back again,” and with a very natural sigh the poor lady prepared to descend to the morning-room.

She was hospitable and kind, but of a slightly less easy-going nature than her husband and family in general: in reality she was less selfish. But she did not show to advantage as the chatelaine of The Fells, when she entered the morning-room, feeling and looking worried and perplexed.

“So glad to see you, so sorry I was not down-stairs!” she said in a somewhat constrained tone, as Mrs Wentworth pressed forward effusively. And the cheek which received the visitor’s kiss was quickly turned away. “Your daughter? ah, yes, of course. I remember. You have a son too? No? Oh, I am confusing you with Mrs – Why, Trixie, you here!” in a tone of extremest surprise. “Wonders will never cease! Can she be going to turn over a new leaf?” she asked herself mentally. Anyway, it was a convenience for the time being to have one daughter at hand; “perhaps what her father said to her this morning is going to have some effect,” she went on to herself, feeling by no means disposed in the present emergency to quarrel with the goods the gods sent her, even though they were but Beatrix.

“I was just thinking that, perhaps, Mrs Wentworth and Miss – No?” In response to a smiling gesture of deprecation from her new friend, “am I really to call you Imogen; that is sweet of you.” This was going a little too far. An undisguised frown on her cousin’s face startled Trixie a little. “I was thinking,” she repeated in a more natural tone, “that, perhaps, they would like to see their rooms.”

“Very decidedly so, I should say,” replied Major Winchester sharply.

Beatrix turned to her mother.

“Which rooms, mamma?” she said in a low tone. But Imogen overheard it. “Fancy,” she thought, with a little thrill of disappointment, “fancy her not knowing. Why, if they had been coming to stay with us, I would have been running about to get flowers for their toilet-tables, and all sorts of things like that. But, I suppose, it is different when people have so many visitors.”

The momentary feeling, however, was visible, as were most of the girl’s feelings to quick observation at least, on her transparent countenance. As she raised her sweet eyes, she caught Major Winchester’s fixed on her with a curious expression. She felt herself flush a little.

“I do believe he knows what I am thinking,” she said to herself, with a strange mingling of pleasure and annoyance, “and I have not known him two hours!”

But the sound of Mrs Helmont’s voice recalled her to practical matters.

“The brown room and the little pink room beside it; you know, Trixie, in the corner by the west staircase. Only – I am really so vexed – I am afraid your room is not quite ready, Mrs Wentworth, you see – ”

“Mrs Wentworth,” repeated the owner of the name reproachfully, “am I not to be ‘Lucy’ to you, dear Mrs Helmont?”

At another time the good lady would probably have been touched and would have responded kindly, but just now she was thoroughly put out.

“It is twenty years, if not more, since we met, and then only for a couple of days. I really had not the least idea what your name was; but the question is your room. – Trixie!” glancing round despairingly.

Mrs Wentworth put a brave effort on herself; she was determined that Imogen should not suspect she was feeling mortified.

“What does it matter about my room?” she said, laughingly. “I can’t allow you to treat me as quite a stranger, even though you had forgotten my name. Can’t I take off my wraps in – ” “In Beatrix’s room,” she was going to have said, but she was interrupted.

“In mine,” said a new-comer. “It is Mrs and Miss Wentworth, is it not? I heard of some arrival, and knowing Florence was out, and you busy, dear Mrs Helmont, mayn’t I be of a little use for once?” and Miss Forsyth – for she it was – drew near her hostess with an air of half-timid deprecation. Mrs Helmont felt completely bewildered. She had little presence of mind at any time, and this extraordinary metamorphosis was too much for her. Major Winchester, be it observed, had before this taken his departure.

“I – I am sure I have never refused to let you be of use, Mabella,” said the elder lady, rather stiffly.

Miss Forsyth drew still nearer, and whispered a word or two in her ear. Mrs Helmont’s face softened.

“Now, Mrs Wentworth, do come with me,” said the young woman. “My room is next to Trixie’s, where I know she is dying to take your daughter. I can lend you anything – slippers, brushes, combs – even a tea-gown if your dress is damp, and if you would so far condescend?”

Mrs Wentworth looked at her. Miss Forsyth was undeniably plain, almost coarse-looking. Her features were large, her complexion swarthy; the only redeeming point, as not infrequently is the case with otherwise ugly people, was her eyes. They were large and dark, and therefore supposed to be beautiful.

“She has nice eyes,” thought Mrs Wentworth, “and she seems very amiable. For such a plain girl to be amiable she must be very amiable, I should say. – And thank you very much, Miss – ” And she hesitated.

“Forsyth,” said Mrs Helmont. “Miss Forsyth is a very frequent visitor with us,” she went on, her conscience smiting her a little for making over these innocent lambs to the wolf Mabella, whom, truth to tell, she herself was not a little afraid of. But Baxter would not have got all the linen put away yet: there would be time for her to resume and complete the interesting review of her possessions before luncheon if she went at once.

“If you will be so kind, Mabella,” she went on. – “You, dear Mrs Wentworth, will, I know, excuse me. I really am very busy this morning.”

“Of course, of course,” cried Imogen’s mother, delighted to have won the gratifying adjective. “We shall be perfectly happy. – Thank you so much, Miss Forsyth,” and she turned to follow Mabella, Beatrix and the other victim having already disappeared. Trixie managed to hang back on the stairs, however, and to exchange an aside with her double.

“I like you,” she said, “preaching to me about not overdoing it, and there you are, humbugging away to such an extent. Any fool could see you were up to mischief.”

“I know what I’m about, thank you,” said Miss Forsyth. “If you manage your part of it as well, you’ll have no reason to turn upon me. Your mother is incapable of more than one idea at a time, and just now her only thought is to hand over these people to somebody or anybody till luncheon time.”

And long before luncheon time one part of Mabella’s task was accomplished. She had won thoroughly and completely Mrs Wentworth’s confidence, and this with so little difficulty that she almost despised herself as well as her unconscious victim for the ease of the achievement.

“She is charming,” said poor Mrs Wentworth, when at last she found herself alone with her daughter, “quite charming, so kind and unselfish. I really must say I should have felt just a little, a very little strange and uncomfortable arriving so early, and poor dear Mrs Helmont so busy and the elder girls out, if it hadn’t been for Miss Forsyth. It shows how unwise it is to judge by appearances; at first, I confess, I did not at all feel as if I should take to her.”

“I never shall take to her,” said Imogen, bluntly; “I can’t bear her. She has a sort of patronising way that I think is perfectly horrid. Still, I’m glad if she made you more comfortable. I felt horribly uncomfortable, and I don’t think Mrs Helmont is ‘poor dear’ at all: she really didn’t seem the very least glad to see us – hardly as if she knew whom we were. I felt inclined to beg you to go back to London again.”

“My darling!” exclaimed Mrs Wentworth in horror.

They were in Imogen’s room – which was at last ready – doing their best, though without their luggage, to make themselves presentable for luncheon.

“Yes,” said Imogen. “I did, indeed. And I felt very cross with you too, mamsey, for it really was all with you insisting on coming so long before they expected us: it was a stupid thing to do. Trixie allowed that it was, though she’s as nice as can be. She made me feel at home almost at once, I must say.”

“I am so glad,” said Mrs Wentworth, fervently.

“All the same.” Imogen went on thoughtfully, “I think I understand what Major Winchester meant.” Was it fancy, or did a faint, the very faintest pink flush steal over her face at the mere mention of his name?

“How do you mean, darling?” asked her mother. “You seem to have made great friends with this Major Winchester already.”

“Nonsense, mamsey!” said Imogen, not too respectfully, it must be allowed; “he was very kind to us, and of course it was natural for him to tell me a little about the girls, when he saw I was so anxious to know. He likes Florence much the best; but in spite of what he said, I am not sure that I shall. There is a great deal of good in Trixie, I am sure. She has been telling me about herself: she has been spoilt and selfish, she says, and rather wild. And though she didn’t say so, I fancy Miss Forsyth has not had a good influence on her. That’s why I don’t like her.”

“My dear, you must not jump to conclusions so quickly,” remonstrated Mrs Wentworth.

“I’m not jumping more quickly than you, mamma,” Imogen replied. “You have made up your mind that Miss Forsyth is all that is delightful; I only say I don’t think so. I did not at first think I should like Trixie particularly, except that she really met us very kindly. But she seemed to me to have something rather hard about her; only now I understand it.” Imogen paused for a moment, as if thinking out something to herself, and that not with perfect satisfaction – “at least I think I do. They don’t understand her; she wants to be nice and good, I’m sure, but nobody believes her. Major Winchester is dreadfully down upon her, she says; he can’t bear girls who are at all loud, you know, or fast. And poor Trixie has no friend to help her at all. She says she does so hope we shall be friends, mamsey.”

“Yes, dearest, I am sure she will learn nothing but good from you,” said Mrs Wentworth, well pleased. “It is very evident that he appreciates Imogen already,” she added, to herself with a little thrill of maternal pride. “But, darling, we must be quick. I do hope the luncheon bell hasn’t gone without us hearing it, and I’m half afraid I don’t remember the way to the dining-room.”

“We needn’t go straight there,” said Imogen. “Trixie said we should find some of them in the morning-room. You look quite right, mamsey; you do really. But oh dear! I do wish we hadn’t arrived before our luggage and Colman, my boots do clump so. Trixie offered to lend me a pair of shoes, but I could see hers would be too big, so I said I didn’t mind keeping on my boots.”

“Your feet are so tiny; just the least little atom longer than mine,” said her mother, with an amusing mixture of admiration and self-complacency. “And mine were always spoken of as quite extraordinary. Your dear father used to wonder how I could walk upon them.”

“Well, in India that didn’t matter much, as nobody ever does walk – not what I call walking,” Imogen remarked.

And thus chattering, with the real though unavowed motive of keeping up their courage and keeping down their shyness, the mother and daughter slowly descended the great wide shallow-stepped staircase which led to the hall.

Chapter Five
The Duties of Hospitality

They heard voices in the direction of the morning-room, so thither they turned their steps. The morning-room opened at one side into the large dining-room, on the other into the library. The doors of communication between all these were now open, and bright fires were burning in each. To Imogen, at the first glance, it seemed as if the rooms were filled with people, for the moving about and laughing and talking that were going on had a confusing effect upon her; she had scarcely time to do more than glance round her bewilderedly when the luncheon gong sounded, and universal making for the door ensued.

“Stay behind with me, and then we can sit together,” said some one beside her, and turning round, Imogen saw Beatrix at her elbow. But at the same moment, another voice reached her.

“Excuse me, Trixie,” it said; “you are forgetting that Miss Wentworth has not yet made acquaintance with your sisters. It is hardly my business to introduce you and your guest,” he added, with a smile to the girl beside him.

“But still – under the circumstances – ”

“Yes,” said Imogen, smiling herself, “under the circumstance of its being very doubtful if we should have got here at all without you, I think certainly you may be – ”

“Master of the ceremonies,” said Florence, half interrupting her as she hesitated. Imogen looked at her. She was as tall as Beatrix, scarcely as handsome perhaps, but with an expression in her eyes which would have attracted Imogen much more than Trixie’s bold defiance, had it not been for the prejudice already skilfully sown against her elder sister by that astute young woman.

“She is discontented and rather cross-looking,” thought Imogen. “I am sure it is true, as Trixie said, that she has a disagreeable temper;” and the gentleness of Florence’s voice and manner – gentleness which, to please her cousin, she endeavoured to make specially kindly – the little stranger dubbed as “patronising,” while the real sadness underlying it she attributed to the chronic unamiability Beatrix had done more than hint at. Still, it was not in Imogen’s nature to be altogether unresponsive. She replied becomingly to Florence’s few words of welcome, and went on into the dining-room beside her. But there was a complete absence of the girlish camaraderie which lighted up her face as she threw back a laughing word or two to Trixie following with Rex behind them.

Major Winchester almost ground his teeth.

“Already!” he muttered. “So you have made friends with Miss Wentworth, I see,” he said aloud, dryly.

A sharp and defiant reply was on Trixie’s lips, but she prudently recalled Miss Forsyth’s advice. Nor did she “overdo” her part either.

“I don’t know what you call ‘making friends’,” she said quietly, and not without a certain dignity. “You know me too well to suppose that a child like that and I could have much in common; but after my father’s exceedingly severe warnings this morning, I was bound to be civil and attentive, if I did not want to drive things too far.” There was a touch, possibly sincere for the moment, of something like genuine regret and reproach, as she added, rather bitterly: “I don’t, of course, dream of asking you to believe I mean to turn over a new leaf. It would be quite against you very good people’s principles to credit one with such intentions.”

Rex started. The words came home to his sensitive conscience. Was it not true that he had almost come to have no belief in Beatrix? “Trixie!” he exclaimed impulsively, “if you – ” But she had already turned away.

She did not wish him to be kind to her; she resented his interference too deeply and maliciously; she did not wish to be in the slightest degree softened to him. But he did not see the expression on her face, or the mocking, spiteful smile on her lips, so he retained a certain feeling of pity and self-reproach, as he thought to himself, with a sigh: “If only Eva had been well and strong, her influence might have done something, even with Trixie.”

And this touch of self-accusation with regard to Beatrix was, though unsuspected by the two conspirators, about the most fortunate thing that could have happened to further Miss Forsyth’s silence. For it caused Rex, by a mistaken sort of loyalty to the girl who, he fancied, had appealed to his kindlier judgment, to measure his words about her, to be chary of repeating the warnings he had already hinted to Imogen. Not, perhaps, that she would now have believed them; they might, however, not improbably have made a barrier between herself and her first friend, Major Winchester, and thus prevented the success of Mabella’s plot.

In spite of Trixie’s manoeuvres, Imogen found herself at luncheon beside Florence. Beatrix, however, was just opposite, so that any sort of rapprochement between the young girl and her neighbour was impossible. Florence herself was not brave enough to dare the mocking glances of her younger sister’s eyes, and her well-meant attempts at conversation fell flat, while her somewhat constrained manner only added to Imogen’s prejudice.

“She speaks to me as if I were about two years old,” thought the girl. “Of course she is much, much older than I; but still, even Major Winchester, who is nearly as old as mamsey, I daresay, speaks to me as if I had some sense.”

And happening at the moment to glance down the long table, she caught his eye. He was looking towards her, in search of her, with a certain concern and anxiety which Imogen was at once conscious of. She felt herself blush a little, even as she responded to his inaudible inquiry with the tiniest nod and smile of reassurance.

“I’m all right, thank you,” they seemed to say. And, “How kind he is! How nice it is to feel that there is one person among all these strangers who cares a little for me already!” she thought with a little thrill, as she caught the smile on Rex’s face in return.

Some one else saw the smile and the blush, and it needed but a glance in the direction in which they had been bestowed for Trixie to interpret them. Florence, unfortunately, by this time despairing of making any way with the girl beside her, had allowed her thoughts to wander far from the present, and was paying but little attention to what passed, till rousing herself suddenly she began an animated conversation with the man on her other side, thus throwing Imogen altogether on the mercy of her left-hand neighbour, Oliver Helmont. He had not yet been introduced to her, but a word to Trixie on the opposite side had the desired effect, and in a minute or two Imogen began to feel considerably more at home than she could have believed possible.

There was no harm in Oliver, as the saying goes. He was a good-natured rattle, more or less selfish, but honest and well-meaning, and not without some faint capacity somewhere about him for a species of hero-worship. And though there were few to whom he would have owned it, the hero down at the bottom of his heart was his cousin Reginald. So when, encouraged by his pleasant genial face and manner, Imogen confided to him the history of the morning’s misadventures, they soon found themselves on common ground.

“Major Winchester was so kind,” said the girl, after relating Rex’s good offices. “We should have been there still, but for him.”

Oliver’s face beamed.

“Just like him,” he said. “He is awfully kind. Fact is,” here he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper, “I don’t think there’s another fellow like him, search the world over. It isn’t every one he takes to though, so a good many people call him a prig and a saint, and all that style of thing. My sisters now, though they’ve known him all their lives – naturally so, as he’s our cousin – they don’t get on with him, except Florence; she’s rather made an alliance with him lately, or he with her, since she’s been so down in the mouth, you know.”

Imogen did not “know,” but she scarcely felt as if she could ask for an explanation.

“That’s his way – any one in trouble, or helpless, or that he can be any good to, you see.”

“Yes,” said the girl, smiling, “I do see, for we were very helpless, and he was of great good to us.”

“No wonder,” said Oliver, feeling as if he were putting things rather awkwardly. “In this case his benevolence was certainly a pleasure.”

“Thank you,” said Imogen, laughing.

“But you see,” he went on, “in a general way, Rex isn’t at all a ladies’ man; he’s rather standoff and severe, and he’s got very, very particular ideas. I never dare stand up for him to my sisters. Not that he needs it, but they’d only make fun of me, you see. Trixie pretty nearly hates Rex, I do believe,” he added, almost in a whisper, “and Alicia can’t stand him. He’s down upon them both in their different ways, you see.”

“I have not spoken to Miss Helmont yet,” said Imogen, “but Trixie has been so kind to us. I can’t help thinking Major Winchester misunderstands her a little.”

Oliver drew his lips together almost as if he were going to whistle. Then he thought better of it, and turned the conversation from his youngest sister.

“I suppose it’s true what the parsons say,” he remarked. “People have much kinder feelings to others if they’ve had troubles themselves. Rex has had lots; his mother died when he was quite a young fellow, and he adored her; and then – ”

“Has he no brothers and sisters – no one belonging to him?” asked the girl, eagerly.

“He’s got a brother, much younger – a very good fellow – and a sister. But it’s very sad about her, and the saddest of all is – ” But here a general move announced that luncheon was over, and Oliver’s communications only left Imogen with a vague notion that Major Winchester was one of a thousand, and that there were some especially sorrowful circumstances connected with his only sister.

This latent sympathy gave an additional gentleness and almost deference to her manner, a still greater softness to her pretty eyes, when she came upon Rex in the hall, where with Florence and Captain Helmont, the eldest son of the house, and one or two others, he was discussing the plans for the afternoon.

“It is clearing, there’s no doubt,” Major Winchester was saying. “I’ve had driving enough for my part, for to-day; suppose we go off for a walk?”

“Dear me!” said a mocking voice beside him. “What condescension! You don’t mean to say that you, Major Winchester, are offering to go for a walk with any of us!”

The speaker was Mabella Forsyth.

“Yes, really, it is wonderful,” said Alicia as she sauntered up to join the group, which was gradually augmented by most of those present. “What’s coming over you, Rex? Not that I want to go for a walk; it’s far too sloppy and plashy, and I’m tired already. Besides, some one must stay with mother to receive the Girards and the Custances.”

“I will come, Rex,” said Florence, promptly though quietly. “There is nothing to do in the house: we can’t begin settling our parts or anything till Mr Girard is here, and Gerty for the dresses is indispensable. – Perhaps Miss Wentworth would like to come too?” she added kindly. “We can lend you strong boots and a mackintosh if your things haven’t come. And we must start at once – November afternoons in these northern latitudes are not much to boast of. Who else will come? You, Noll?”

“Very much at your service,” replied Oliver, who had found his pretty neighbour to his taste.

Florence’s eyes wandered round the group.

“No, thank you,” said Miss Forsyth, pretending to think that they had rested on her, “Trixie and I prefer to be independent in our strolls.”