The stranger was a tall, handsome girl with a vague resemblance to someone—why, to Letty, to be sure! In an illuminating flash she saw it all! Blag had sprung one of his jokes on her, and brought home the daughter!
“It’s only my little girl,” he announced with indescribable pride; “five-foot-six in her stockings. She has chucked Switzerland, and come to live with me.”
“Ah, so this is Cara,” drawing her towards her as she spoke.
Ciel! How her aunt smelt of whisky, and tobacco;—just like a man, thought the girl as she passively submitted to her kisses.
“Why did you not prepare me? Why keep this pleasure to yourself?” continued Lady Rashleigh with ostentatious composure.—In that brief moment she had decided to be civil to the new-comer, and make no scene. Hugo was undoubtedly struck, but his fancies never lasted; he would tire of his novelty before the month was out, and she resolved to sit tight in Hill Street—the flat was let. This well-grown interloper knew nothing of English society, and she determined to keep her in the background, and rule her, as she had done the pink-cheeked little fool, her mother.
But it was not long—in fact, less than five minutes—before Connie Rashleigh discovered her mistake. Cara was a true chip of the old block, as hard and ruthless as herself, and with all the cocksureness and cruelty of youth. The girl’s manner was self-possessed, she talked glibly of Paris and their journey, and became surprisingly animated as she volubly described her new gowns. Meanwhile, her father looked on with swelling pride. His eyes seemed to ask, Was there ever such a complexion? such hair? such teeth? Connie Rashleigh stared and listened with a feeling of dismal apprehension—which apprehension proved to be but too well founded, when at a hint from her father, Cara, in a trailing tea-gown, sailed into the dining-room before her aunt, and sank into a chair at the head of the table.
“Cara is beginning as she is to go on,” explained Hugo. “She is installed as the mistress of the house—the robes, and the keys—eh, Cara?”
His methods were ever blunt: his idea of diplomacy a bludgeon!
And Lady Rashleigh, choking with impotent fury, was compelled to subside into a place at the side of the board, with what appetite and grace she could assume.
“Champagne, Carter—the ’94,” commanded his master; “we will drink Miss Blagdon’s health and welcome.”