“Ah! yes, so he was. I declare I was thinking of some one else. I meet such thousands of new people every year. One thing I have not forgotten: your too delicious wire mattresses—such a treat in India—and your charming landau on cee springs; and, oh yes, those absurd old elephants! Dear Mrs. Hayes,” gazing closely at Emma, “you look as if this cold climate did not agree with you; you have got quite hollow-cheeked and thin.”
“I have been rather ailing,” said Emma, faintly.
“You really must get away to Torquay this Christmas. Have you made any friends here?”
“Scarcely friends,” was her reply; “though people have been most kind to me. My friends are in India.”
“I wonder you don’t go back to them! I really would advise it,” rising as she spoke. “Meanwhile, we must see something of you, and I’ll send you some game and fruit. Supposing”—and she hesitated for a moment—“you were to dine with us on Christmas Day, eh?—it will cheer you up—and bring the little girl, too—will you?”
“I am sure you are very kind, but——”
“Now, no buts,” she protested playfully. “We dine at eight. Just a family gathering; and, look here”—she seemed subject to afterthoughts—“I’ll send for you and send you home. I’ve had a good many drives in your carriage,” she added, quite affectionately.
I saw the tears standing in Emma’s eyes. I was but a mere spectator, and had nothing to do but look on, and I had had ample opportunity of observing Lady Hildegarde. She afforded a sharp contrast to Emma, who seemed unusually small, delicate, and forlorn. Her visitor, who did not look her age, was tall, slight, and held herself well. She had a smooth and beautiful complexion, brown hair worn over a cushion, a pair of bright eyes, an animated expression, and a pointed chin. She was dressed in a sort of pelisse, richly trimmed with priceless sable, and a smart little French bonnet which bristled with wings.
“Now, I will take no excuse; there is no occasion for me to send you a formal card, is there?”