“I suppose you have not made many acquaintances here, as yet?”
“No; no one has called but Miss Skuce.”
“Oh,” smiling, “she calls on every one—so like her! She finds out all about strangers, and she is nicknamed the ‘Stonebrook News.’ She is a well-meaning person, but dreadfully pushing—you must really keep her in her place. Lady Hildegarde puts her down so beautifully.”
“But I understand that Lady Hildegarde is a particular friend of hers?”
“Of hers!—of Miss Skuce’s!” in a loud voice. “Oh, dear me, what has she been telling you? She is never invited to the Abbey, except once a year to the dignity ball here—and Lady Hildegarde merely makes use of her at bazaars and charity teas.”
The departing Bennys met in the narrow doorway Lady Bloss and Miss Bloss, the former a commanding matron in black velvet, with a miniature catafalque upon her stately head—aquiline, portly, immensely condescending, with a very large person and a small squeaky voice.
“So pleased to find you at home,” offering two fat fingers, and looking round anxiously for a solid seat. “My daughter, Miss Bloss. I heard you were a very intimate friend of my dear cousin, Lady Hildegarde Somers. Some one happened to mention it when I was in the post-office, so I thought, as I was in town, I would just run over and see you!”
The idea of Lady Bloss running anywhere was too preposterous to entertain without smiles.
“And how do you like our little town? And were you long in India?”—and so on and so on. “And will you come to tea next week? I’ll send you a card.” And then she struggled up from her low seat, beckoned to her daughter, and really the room looked quite empty after their departure!
Little Mrs. Cholmondeley, the wife of a M. F. H., was still with us—a smart, fashionable-looking woman, with sandy hair and a long-handled eye-glass, by means of which she noted everything.