The night after her walk with Wynyard, Aurea slept but little; she was thinking, and wondering, and happy. As she dressed, she was unusually abstracted, and when Norris began her coiffure, she did not as usual read the Psalms for the day, but sat with crossed hands in a trance of meditation, whilst her maid brushed her soft and lustrous locks. After twice clearing her throat with energetic significance, Norris began—
“So Mrs. Ramsay is letting the house for six months, I hear?”
“Yes,” was the languid reply.
“To a sort of county inspector; the chauffeur fellow showed him in—he has a finger in every one’s pie.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Norris.”
“Well, anyway, he did a lot for Mrs. Ramsay,” she answered, with significance. “He was in and out at all hours—some think he is good-looking—and ladies like him.”
“What ladies?”
“Well, now, Miss Aurea, you know I don’t intend any harm, but the talk is that your aunt, Miss Susan, makes too great a pet of him. Why, half his day he’s helping her in the garden or potting plants in the greenhouse; and she lends him books, and talks and makes a fuss of him, just as if he were in her own station.”
Norris’ speech was so rapid, such a cataract of words, that her young mistress had not been able to interrupt; at last she broke in—
“How wicked of people!” endeavouring to wrench her hair away. “Poor Aunt Susan—so good, unselfish, and kind—not even spared! Oh, it’s too abominable! I’m ashamed of you, Norrie; how can you listen to such things?”