“Yes, we are to sleep at the Abbey that night,” said Emma, carelessly.
“Well, upon my word, I call that doing it comfortably. I am so glad,” suddenly rising and wringing Emma’s hand. “You will enjoy it! Christmas at the Abbey! You will have no end to tell us. Oh, by the way, did you—did she—mention me?”
“No,” was the rather shamefaced admission.
Miss Skuce looked extremely glum.
“You see,” continued Emma, “she was not here long, and was entirely taken up with other topics—India, you know. However, when I am under her roof, I shall certainly make a point of telling her of your kindness.”
“Oh, no, no, no—ten thousand times no! It’s not worth mentioning, only that I am sure she would be glad to know that, in her absence, her friends were taken good care of. I’ll bring you some eggs to-morrow.” (There had been a considerable pause with regard to these eggs.) Finally Miss Skuce kissed Emma with almost passionate fervor—believing that a peeress had left a recent impress on the same pale lips—and went forth in haste to spread the news.
It lost nothing in the telling! Lady Hildegarde had lunched—no, she had had tea with us. The Hayes were going to stay at the Abbey—to live there. Lady Hildegarde had adopted Miss Hayes. It took ten days to sift facts from fiction, and then it was generally allowed that we were to dine at the Abbey, that one of the Abbey carriages was to fetch us, and we were to remain all night. To be invited to dine at the Abbey on Christmas Day was a conspicuous favor, and civilities, which had somewhat flagged within the last few weeks, were now rekindled more warmly than ever.