“Are you staying here, Mrs. Glyn?” enquired Mrs. Plassy, and her tone was frigid and judicial. “I did not see your name in the hotel list.”
“Oh, no,” broke in Cara, attracted by these fashionable strangers, “we live in a farm up the hill, called Les Plans.”
“How absolutely delightful!” murmured Miss Plassy. “It must be so healthy—and so secluded,” and she threw Letty a significant glance.
“No, it’s horrid!” declared Cara rebelliously.
“Won’t you sit down, and have some tea?” urged Mrs. Hesketh (who appreciated the crisis at its full value). “There is plenty of room, and I’ll send for more cups.”
“I’ve finished,” announced Cara, rising as she spoke and offering her seat to Mrs. Plassy, who sank into it with an air of satisfaction, saying to herself as she drew off her gloves, “This will save me three francs!”
“I don’t want any tea, thank you,” said Lydia Plassy, “so Miss Glyn and I will stroll about, and make one another’s acquaintance.”
“Yes, a capital idea!” assented her parent. “Do you two girls go off and amuse one another, and we old people will talk of old times.”
Thus dismissed, the girl of seventeen and the girl of thirty-seven, walked away laughing and chattering. Their dress was almost identical—white gowns, large hats wreathed with flowers; the sole difference being that Cara wore roses, and her companion a wreath of daisies.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Hesketh and her friend proved poor enough company for a guest who was filled with a burning curiosity,—and they with a sense of icy terror.