So Ellen and Colonel Crayfield took a little stroll in the garden, and the gentleman also took the opportunity to make a request connected with his own comfort.
"I hope I shall not be giving too much trouble, dear Miss Ellen," he said with diffidence, "but might a tray be put in my bedroom overnight? I am afraid I am a victim to old Indian habits, and one of them is that I wake very early and long for a cup of tea. I have my own kettle and spirit stand—I never move without them in England—so that if a teapot and some tea, and a little milk——"
Ellen eagerly assented. Of course; it would be no trouble at all. She was so glad he should have mentioned it. "And I do hope you will ask for exactly what you want. I will tell Betty, and see that she arranges the tray properly."
"If it might be a fairly big teapot and a breakfast cup ..." pursued Colonel Crayfield. (What he had suffered in English households from "dainty little morning tea-sets"!—a teapot the size of an apple, a cup to match, tea so thick and strong that it might have been jam.)
Ellen wondered nervously if there would be enough milk left overnight for the visitor's tray. Betty was always so careful not to take more than was actually required for the household. "I think I will just run indoors," she said apologetically, "and tell Betty what to do, so that she will be sure not to forget anything."
"You are more than kind!" exclaimed Colonel Crayfield with fervour; but he did not add that he hoped she would speedily return and continue their stroll. And when Ellen reappeared, smiling and triumphant, he was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Stella in sight; and Ellen finally discovered the pair in the kitchen garden.
Stella had crawled beneath a net that protected the gooseberries from the birds. Colonel Crayfield was standing stolid and large on the path, and Stella was handing him berries through the meshes of the net. He was not eating the fruit, and Ellen felt that this was compatible with his dignity and his years. She could not imagine Colonel Crayfield sucking gooseberries and throwing the skins about! It seemed he was collecting them for Stella, who, bent double, was robbing the bushes—such an ungainly attitude for a young lady.
"Stella!" called Aunt Ellen in reproof, "you are tearing your frock!"
The child looked a disgraceful object as she emerged from the nets; a long rent in one of her sleeves disclosed a round white arm with a red scratch in the flesh, her face was crimson, her hair in disorder, she was covered with twigs and bits, and her mouth was sticky with gooseberry juice. Laughing, she held out her skirt, like an apron, for the fruit that filled Colonel Crayfield's large mahogany-coloured hands.
Ellen felt truly ashamed of her niece. What would Colonel Crayfield be thinking of his goddaughter, and of the way in which she had been brought up! Had Ellen observed the look in Colonel Crayfield's eyes at the moment, she would probably have mistaken it for astonished disapproval; as it was, she only observed that he gazed at Stella in silence, at the shining hair that fell over her forehead, at the wide-open brown eyes, thickly lashed and full of mischief, at the flushed cheeks and parted lips, that showed a row of faultless little teeth, and at the red scratch on the white forearm.