Felicia Merrick’s father and her own husband were brothers.
“Yes; digging all morning; weeding and watering most of the afternoon.” Felicia was thinking that to-day her aunt looked more funnily than ever like a collection of parcels strapped together for postal delivery. She was mentally tying a stamped label to her hat; the circle of the curl between the eyebrows was already a post-mark.
“Doesn’t Thomas do the digging? It must, I know, be hard to manage with one boy, but surely he could do the digging.”
“He does, unless I want to.”
“People can see you from the road—not that any one passes by here often.”
“Not often,” Felicia assented.
“I want to know if you can come down to us to-morrow for a week,” said Mrs. Merrick, allowing the antagonistic moment to pass, and after a slight hesitation Felicia answered, “Yes, thanks.”
Mrs. Merrick had often suspected that Felicia’s gratitude on these occasions was not up to the mark of the opportunities they gave her, and now, emphasizing the present opportunity, she went on, “You can’t fail to enjoy yourself. Lady Angela Bagley is with us. You have heard of her. I met her in London this Spring; we took a great fancy to each other. She is a wonderful woman—really wonderful. Such intellect, such soul, such world polish, and with it such saintliness. Everybody feels that about her; it helps one to know that there are such people in the world,” said Mrs. Merrick, sighing as she flicked the pony—“people who have everything the world can give, and who care nothing for it.” Felicia wondered from which of her recent guests her aunt had picked up these phrases which came oddly from her anxious materialism.
“I have often seen her picture in the ladies’ papers,” she replied; “it will be nice to see her.” She dimly remembered a narrow face, a mist of hair, a long, yearning throat, and she at once decided that she would not like Lady Angela and her soul.
“Yes, it will be nice for you. She takes an interest in everybody. Of course your father must come, too. There are some interesting men whom he will like meeting. Mr. Daunt, the young M.P., is a cousin of Lady Angela—the comet of the season, my dear;—most wonderful speech in the House—you probably heard of it; Imperialism—national prestige;—and a friend of his, Mr. Wynne, a most captivating person. He writes essays, he paints, he plays the violin; people are quite mad about him in London. You mustn’t fall in love with him, Felicia, for, charming as he is, he has no money.”