“I believe they are an old French family—de Palairet, and have the dark eyes and animation of the race,—but they are so long in England, they have become Parrett.”
“De Palairet is rather a mouthful. And whereabouts do the old birds nest?”
“In a remote part of Midshire. I came across them when I stayed with our cousins, the Davenants, down at Westmere; when I was a girl I went there every summer, but now the family place is sold.”
“Yes, the Davenants are broke. Young Davenant was in the Hussars with me, and was frightfully hard up.”
“The two Miss Parretts lived in the village of Ottinge—Ottinge-in-the-Marsh—in a little old red cottage. They had two maids, two cats, and a sweet garden. The original property was in the neighbourhood, and the family manor of the Parretts. The father of these old ladies, Colonel Parrett, married in India, when he was a sub., a planter’s daughter, simply because he, they say, was dared to make her an offer—and whatever a Parrett is dared to do—they do.”
“I say, I think I shall like them! I shall dare them to double my salary.”
“The first Mrs. Parrett died and left a baby, your future mistress. Her father sent her home, and married, years later, an Irish girl, and again his wife died and left him with two more girls. One married the village parson, the other lived with her father and sister in the Manor. After the death of Colonel Parrett, it was found that he had squandered all his money putting it into follies: the Manor was mortgaged to the chimneys, the daughters had to turn out, and for years lived in genteel poverty. Now comes a turn of Fortune’s wheel! Some distant Parrett relative bequeathed a heap of money to Miss Parrett, and she and Miss Susan have gone back to the Manor. Bella Parrett must be well over seventy; Susan is about fifty, has the youngest heart I ever knew in an elderly body, and is the most unselfish creature in the world. Miss Parrett is an egotistical old person, full of pedigree and importance, but always delightfully sweet and affectionate to me. She looks obstinate and self-willed, and I feel positive that some one has dared her to buy a motor! I had a letter from her the other day, asking me to take up the character of a cook; she mentioned that she was about to purchase a most beautiful automobile upholstered in green morocco leather,—think of that! and would soon be looking for a nice, steady, respectable young man as chauffeur, and”—pointing at her brother with an ivory paper knife—“here he is!”
“Is he?” he responded doubtfully, “I’m not so sure.”
“Yes. I admit that it will be hideously dull, and I can absolutely guarantee you against any sensational experiences. It is just a sleepy little country place, with few big people in the neighbourhood: no racing, shockingly bad hunting—not that this will affect you—but it will be an ideal spot for putting in the time. You will never see a soul you know; I’ll keep you well supplied with books, papers, and news, and steal down to see you now and then, ‘under the rose.’”
“Don’t, don’t!” he protested, with a laugh, “think of my spotless character.”