“But I don’t like her face, Emma. With all its smiles, it could be very grim and hard.”
“Oh, my dearest Gwen, that is imagination; she has a most charming expression. When you know her, you feel that you could do anything for her!”
“Probably; but she would not do anything for me! I am positive that I shall not like her. She is home nearly a week, and I think she might have come to see you!”
“My dear, fiery, touchy Gwen, she has so much to do—a great household, visitors, engagements, and she knows that she need not stand on ceremony with me, I who have nursed her, dressed her, written private letters for her, sat up with her at night. I don’t expect her to be ceremonious, as if I was a stranger—but young people are so hard—so exacting.”
“I think she ought to be very grateful to you, Emma,” I persisted, doggedly.
“I am certain that she is not a bit changed. Just like her son,” rejoined her loyal defender. “We should think the best of every one! I am sure she is just the same as ever.”
Two days more, and yet Lady Hildegarde had not called. Ten days had elapsed since her return, and she had not condescended to come and see us. Miss Skuce was visibly uneasy and rather snappish; also the Miss Bennys were a little cold in their manner when we accosted them after church, and Mrs. Gabb—oh, truly portentous symptom!—ceased to administer cups of tea gratis. At last, one evening quite late, when the chimney was smoking horribly, and there was no lump sugar for tea, she called—came in a one-horse brougham, and remained exactly seven minutes by the clock.
She was exceedingly gracious, shook Emma by both hands, talked of the dear old days in India, of clever, kind Dr. Hayes. “And so this is his daughter! I must have a good look at her,” scanning me up and down with her eye-glass. “She is like him, is she not? He was fair, was not he—with a reddish beard?”
“Oh no,” replied Emma, and her voice trembled. “I’m afraid you don’t quite remember him—he was very dark.”