I knew, but I could not tell him. Possibly he guessed, for he added:
“You know your aunt is a good sort, if you take her the right way. Having pots of money in her own hands is a handicap for any woman”—he heaved a tell-tale sigh, then pulled himself up and said, “Now come along, and let us play piquet.”
It was rather startling to find myself temporary mistress of this great household, to enter rooms I had never seen, to examine things I had never ventured to touch, to play on the grand Steinway piano undisturbed for hours, to give orders, to ring bells, and to sit at the head of the table in the place sacred to my masterful relative. Once I ventured to open the door of her boudoir, and went in on tiptoe, but I did not remain long; the whole room seemed to be imbued with the personality of its mistress.
On hunting days I was alone. Uncle breakfasted, booted and spurred, fussed off to some distant meet, and rarely reappeared before five or six o’clock. I occupied my spare hours in reading, practising, and writing letters—seated at Aunt Mina’s bureau in the morning room, and using the best paper headed “Torrington Park.” As the family were known to be from home, there were no visitors except the rector, and the wife of uncle’s agent, Mrs. Paget-Taylor, who had made a delightful home for herself in the old Dower House across the park.
It was an ideal hunting day, damp and cloudy. In the afternoon, Kipper and I, who had been for a long tramp through the bare wet woods, sat together on a big buffalo rug before the fire in the library. I think I must have been dozing, when I heard the door open and a sonorous voice announce:
“Captain Falkland.”
I sprang to my feet, and so did Kipper. Captain Falkland looked astonished as he advanced, then halted and said:
“The butler told me I would find Miss Lingard here.”
“Miss Eva Lingard,” I corrected. “My aunt and cousins are in London. Uncle is out hunting, but he may be in at any moment.”