She had come out upon the doorstep, tall and good: looking, with lifted eyebrows of dissatisfaction. A pretty boy peeped inquisitively in her rear. Lettice descended from the cab, longing for a kind word of welcome which did not come. Two fingers were tended, and hastily withdrawn.
"Why on earth couldn't you leave some of it at Reading or Brighton? Four big boxes, I declare—and a portmanteau—and a carpet-bag. One would think she meant to take up her abode here for the rest of her life!" A very audible aside, this, and Lettice's pale cheeks burnt responsively. "Well, I suppose it can't be helped. Tell the man to take them all up to Miss Anderson's room," in disdainful accents to the maid. Then to Lettice, "You may as well come in."
Theodosia swept across the passage into the drawing room, and Lettice followed—once more a mere awkward child, acutely conscious of her unwelcome. No Dr. Bryant appeared. Theodosia descended into an easy-chair, motioning Lettice to another which was not easy; and Keith cast askance glances at the newcomer, standing by his mother's side.
"My husband is away for a few nights," Theodosia remarked carelessly. "He may come back to-morrow. It is uncertain. I could not send the pony-carriage, after all. Keith and I wanted it in another direction. But, of course, you could easily manage."
"There were plenty of cabs," Lettice said, with some difficulty.
Theodosia's cold manner was in painful contrast with all the love and petting which she had had at the Farm: and the journey, though not long, had tried her considerably. She had eaten nothing since early morning, and she felt unnerved and shaken. Theodosia surveyed her critically.
"I thought they said you were well again. Why did they not keep you a little longer? Now, Keith, you are rumpling my collar. Hands off, my sweet. Let me see—how old are you?—" to Lettice.
"She grown-up, Mamsie," pronounced Keith.
"I'm sixteen, next month."
"I should have taken you for thirteen. Have you ever seen Dr. Bryant?"