“Well, everything always seems to go smoothly, quite London fashion, and without a hitch,” said Aurea consolingly.
“Yes, but not behind the scenes; and the Mum sometimes makes such horrible blunders in etiquette, such as sending in a baronet’s wife before a countess—and the countess looked pea-green! Altogether it’s a fag. When Bertie marries I expect pater will make him over the place. I wouldn’t mind reigning here myself—would you, Aurea?”
“What a silly question, Joey! I’m not cut out for reigning anywhere.”
“Only in people’s hearts, eh?” stroking her cheek with a finger. “Isn’t that a pretty speech? Well, come along, I want to show you the pretty things I collected abroad—my fans and lace and embroideries.”
But just at this moment a maid entered, and said—
“If you please, ma’am, I was to say that Miss Parrett’s car is at the door, and she’s waiting for Miss Morven.”
The drive home was made by another road (in spite of Miss Parrett’s querulous protestations, and it was evident that the sooner she could abandon the motor the better she would be pleased). Susan, on the other hand, was anxious to see more of the country, and make a detour round by a little town, eight miles away.
“Why, it’s nothing,” she protested; “it’s not worth taking out the car for a run over to Westmere—one might as well walk!”
“One would think it was your car, to hear you talking, Susan;” and Miss Parrett threw herself back in the corner, and closed her eyes, only to open them again immediately, as they sped along the empty, country roads between hedges already green.
“There’s Hopfield Hill!” she exclaimed, suddenly sitting bolt upright. “I’m not going down that in a motor, so don’t suppose it, either of you.”