Helen thought that this was a pleasantry, and laughed immoderately. Mrs. Creery was really most amusing,—but how oddly she was dressed! She was quite old, in Helen's eyes (in truth she was not far from fifty), and yet she was attired in a white muslin polonaise trimmed with rose-coloured bows, and wore a black sailor's hat, with the letters Bacchante stamped in gold upon the ribbon! Meanwhile the elder lady had been taking a great deal of interest in Miss Denis's pretty morning-dress; she had come to the conclusion that the pattern was too complicated to be what is called "carried away in her eye," and was resolved to ask for it boldly,—and that before she was many days older!
"You may go up to the mess," she said, playfully dismissing her host with a wave of her plump, mittened hand. "I want to have a chat with your daughter alone. I came to see her—you are no novelty!"
"Now, my dear, we shall be quite comfortable," she said, as Colonel Denis meekly took his departure. "Did you find him much changed?" she continued, lowering her voice mysteriously.
"A little, but not"—smiling—"nearly as much changed as I seem to him!"
"How much is he going to allow you for the housekeeping?"
Helen assured her questioner that the subject had not even been considered.
Mrs. Creery, on hearing this, was visibly disappointed, and said rather tartly,—
"Well, don't listen to anything under five rupees a day—you could not do it less. The Durands spend that! The Homes say they manage on four, but that's nonsense, and the children could not be half fed. Maybe your father will still leave it to Ram Sawmy, but"—with sudden energy—"you must not hear of that,—the man is a robber!"
"He has been twenty years with papa," ventured Helen.
"So much the worse for your father's pocket," returned Mrs. Creery emphatically. "I suppose you have brought out a number of new gowns? What have you got?"