She was unwelcome, an interloper, and felt it keenly. More than once she tried to screw up her courage, and ask her aunt what was to be her future. Undoubtedly, she was not to remain on permanently as an inmate of No. 15, Cream Street.—Her big box still stood in the back hall. Somehow, she rarely had a chance of a few words with her aunt alone, her affairs were never once touched upon in her hearing, and yet she had reason to believe, that certain animated and rather shrill conversations, that she frequently interrupted,—and that fell away into an awkward silence as she entered a room,—were about her, and her future destination!
Visitors came rapping at No. 15, Cream Street every afternoon, and two, out of the dozens who had called, asked for "Miss Denis." A few days after her arrival, she had been in the drawing-room with her cousins Carrie and Clara, when her first caller made her appearance.
The drawing-room was an apartment that seemed to be all mirrors, low chairs, small tables, and plush photo frames—a pretty room, entirely got up for show, not use. Several of the chairs, were not to be trusted, and one or two tables were decidedly dangerous, but the tout ensemble through coloured blinds, was everything that was smart and fashionable, and "good style"—the fetish the Miss Platts worshipped.
On this particular afternoon Carrie was yawning over the fire, Clara was looking out of the window, commenting on a coroneted carriage and superb pair of steppers, with what is called extravagant action, which had just stopped opposite. Mentally she was thinking, how much she would like to see this equipage in waiting at their own door, when a very curious turn-out came lumbering along, and actually drew up at No. 15. A shapeless, weather-beaten, yellow brougham, drawn by a fat plough-horse, and driven by a coachman in keeping with his steed—a man with a long beard, a rusty hat (that an Andamanese would have scorned), and a horse-sheet round his knees.
Little did Helen Denis dream that she was gazing at that oft-vaunted vehicle—Lady Grubb's carriage.
"Good gracious, Carrie, who on earth is this?" cried Clara, turning to her sister, who was now staring exhaustingly at her own reflection in the chimney-glass. "And coming to call here! Oh, for mercy's sake, do come and look!"
The door of the brougham was slowly opened, and a very stout old lady, attired in a long black satin cloak, and gorgeous bonnet with nodding plumes, descended, and waddled up the steps.
In the vacant carriage there still remained two fat pugs, a worked cushion, a pile of books, and what certainly looked like a basket of vegetables!
"It's no one we know," said Clara contemptuously.