Thus exhorted, Verona hastened into that apartment, barely in time to see a gharry, drawn by two wretched ponies, rattle underneath the porch.
The first person she descried was a stout ayah, who descended backwards, carrying an infant over her shoulder; an alert, sharp-looking creature, in a gay hood, with eyes like two jet beads, and a dusky skin.
The next to appear was, no doubt, Blanche herself; a little, dark, wiry woman, closely resembling her mother, wearing a smart pink cotton, a picture hat and a profusion of bead chains. She sprang up the steps, suddenly stopped short, stared helplessly at Verona, and exclaimed:
"Hul—lo! I suppose this is the third Miss Chandos?" Then she giggled immoderately, and proceeded to kiss her, adding:
"I am Blanche. Blanche Montagu Jones, you know, and here," turning and dragging forward her husband, "is your brother, Montagu."
Montagu was a lank, narrow-chested Eurasian, showily dressed in a blue and white striped suit; he wore a red satin tie, a gilt chain and several rings. He had well-cut features, a simple, amiable expression, and a pair of pale grey eyes, which seemed peculiarly out of place when contrasted with his dark face, and ink-black hair.
"Come, you may kiss her; I give you leave," declared his sprightly wife, pushing him forward with both hands.
But however willing he might have been to accept this permission, there was an expression on the face of the third Miss Chandos which constrained him, and he merely sniggered and offered a limp hand.
"What! not kiss Monty, your own brother?" cried Blanche, in a tone of affronted amazement, "then all I can say is—I'm sorry for your taste!"
Meanwhile Monty consoled himself by saluting his mother-in-law—with whom he appeared to be on terms of unnatural affection.