“No,” said Mrs. St. John slowly—“no, certainly; but somebody was here. And if Amelia does not know many particulars, imagination supplies material to fill up gaps.”
“No doubt,” said Mr. Brooke. “Ha, two young ladies out in the rain!”
“Where?”
Mrs. St. John gazed through the panes, speedily descrying a couple of girlish figures. They seemed to be taking shelter under a small elm, just outside the garden gate; but the shelter was evidently very partial.
“Foolish young things. No umbrella, of course,” said Mr. Brooke.
Mrs. St. John was putting up her eye-glass.
“I know who they are,” she said. “One of them is a daughter of Mr. Rutherford, and the other, no doubt, is her sister. The youngest came to call on me once with her mother—a washed-out, uninteresting little thing—not two ideas in her head.”
“She is likely to be washed-out now, in good earnest. Ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Brooke, pleased with his own joke. “Who is this Mr. Rutherford?”
“He has property at Woodleigh. A very philanthropic sort of individual, I believe;” and a sneer was apparent. “He came in once on business, about a needy person whom he wished to help. His wife has taken the trouble to call on me twice during the three years and a half that I have lived here. I do not think it incumbent on me, at my age, to pay return calls, beyond leaving my card; and people ought to understand this; but probably Mrs. Rutherford does not. She certainly has not given herself much trouble about me. As it happens, her calling or non-calling makes little difference to me; for she did not at all take my fancy.”
“Nevertheless, it might be a charity to offer her daughters a shelter in the storm,” suggested Mr. Brooke, getting rather tired of Mrs. St. John’s utterances. “There is lightning—pretty near too. One of those girls is frightened; and standing under a tree is not particularly safe.”