"Oh, she meant to come in time, father,—if she could."
"Father, who is to walk and who is to drive? Millie thought—"
"Nonsense, Nona. I don't wish to be quoted on all occasions."
"But, Millie dear, I was only going to say—"
"Now, children—er—I think we have talked long enough. Miss Conway is waiting all this time—er—quite neglected. Pray do excuse us, Miss Conway. I fear you will think the children sadly uncivilised. My dears, this is Miss Conway—your beloved mother's dear friend—er—and you will give her a very warm welcome. This is Maggie, Miss Conway, our eldest now at home,—and this is Nona, and this Elfleda. Thyrza, I regret to say, is not here. Our little ones—er—Popsie and Pet—and—er—Miss Millington. My second boy, Denham, is with the pony."
One after another came forward to shake hands, showing more or less of shyness, and no particular warmth.
My first view of Margaret Romilly brought disappointment. For she proved to be in no wise a reproduction of Mrs. Romilly. She is short instead of tall, plump instead of slender; and the only prettiness of which her round innocent face could at that moment boast, lay in the possession of a peach-bloom complexion, and a pair of dark-grey eyes with long curved black lashes. Neither figure nor carriage is good, and the rosy childish hand put into mine might have been years younger than the long fingers of the tall Nona, her more than two years' junior,—both having pulled off their gloves.
Where were Nona's "clouds of auburn hair?" I saw only a knotted coil of decided "carrots" under the brown hat which sheltered Nona's face. A bright face enough, with ordinary features, and with a really transparent skin, which however is a good deal marred by the brown cloudiness resulting from abundant summer freckles.
Elfleda, my friend's "lovely gipsy," I might have recognised earlier, despite the fact that to my critical eyes the loveliness was lacking. I saw only a slim creature, very small in make for sixteen years and a half, with sharp tiny features, elfishly old and quaint, a pair of dusky orbs which neither flashed nor sparkled, a pale sallow complexion, and minute brown hands. Apparently the elf had less to say than anybody. Her little shut-up button of a mouth opened rarely during those few minutes of general talk.
The two youngest girls, Popsie and Pet, or more correctly Mary and Jean, aged eight and seven years old, struck me as rather pretty. They stood hand in hand, under the guardianship of Miss Millington, a young lady perhaps one or two years older than Maggie, and scarcely over Maggie in height, but with greater confidence of bearing, a compact figure, and a neat "pussy-cat" face, by no means intellectual.