"If any other ladies call—say I am not at home."
Verona thoroughly understood. Mrs. Barwell did not wish her friends to find Dominga Chandos sitting in her drawing-room, and she made up her mind that as soon as possible the lady should be relieved of her society—nothing would induce her to remain to tea.
"Oh, stop a moment," said Mrs. Barwell. "Now that I think of it, the private theatrical people are coming in—never mind, never mind." With a wave of her hand she dismissed the bearer.
Then she sat down and motioned the sisters to two chairs, and addressing her conversation exclusively to Verona, began:
"I was so surprised to see you the other day; I had no idea you were in the neighbourhood. What an awful change you must find it in every way!"
Verona mentally assented to this remark, but merely replied:
"I like India. I have always wished to see it."
"That is fortunate, is it not, my dear? as your home happens to be out here. What a contrast to Halstead! Do you often hear from the Melvilles?"
"Not very often—I am a bad correspondent."
These letters were Verona's constant difficulty, she could not tell the truth—also, she could not tell falsehoods. She loved Mrs. Melville even more than ever, but she dared not acquaint her with her unfortunate condition. There is loyalty to one's kindred—be they who they may—rich or poor, black or white. Her letters home were consequently constrained; after the first mention of her relatives she rarely named them. Mrs. Melville could read between the lines. The child was disillusioned and depressed.