"Tea first," suggested Mr. Winton.
"I'm longing to open them. Well—I'll wait." She sat down, and her parents watched her with hardly-veiled anxiety and admiration. She had never looked fresher, prettier, more charming. Mrs. Winton was thinking how, at this phase, she would doubly attract Hamilton Stirling. The other undesirable young fellow had of course to be got rid of as fast as possible. She did not foresee grave difficulty, but she did recognise a need for tact; and though not commonly a tactful person, she was cautious now through fear of consequences. Doris, as she well knew, could be roused to obstinacy.
"No end of invitations," Mrs. Winton said. She ran through a list of forthcoming garden-parties in the neighbourhood; titled names included. She was much too sure of her own position to care for any bolstering up by acquaintances. She would have said that she left "that sort of thing" to "people like Mrs. Brutt." But to-day she was desirous to get Doris back into the old atmosphere; so, with a purpose, important names figured prominently.
"Now may I open these parcels, mother?" The note of submission was unusual. "A pincushion from my Sunday class. Dear little things! And a pair of vases from the maids. How kind of them. Ah, this is from you, mother—a new hat!—and what a beauty! How did you guess that I wanted one? Getting things for climbing cost such a lot,—I've no money left for clothes. And a dear little writing-case from father. Oh, thank you!"
She lifted a large bouquet of hothouse flowers, guessing the truth before she read—"From Hamilton Stirling."
"I don't think I ought to keep that."
"You could hardly send it back, my dear."
"I suppose—not. But I wish—"
The Rector bolted.
"Mother, we didn't write earlier, because we thought—I thought—it was better to wait. But just at last I changed my mind."