“Oh yes, if the train is pretty punctual; but you know what these cross lines are.”
“Do you think she will be a little hurt at no one going to meet her—eh?”
“Hurt! My dear boy, what nonsense!”
“Well, of course, hunting is hunting, and Garfield Cross is our best meet. By the way, I suppose you sent the brougham? It’s an uncommonly cold, raw night.”
“The brougham? Certainly not! I sent the governess-car—yes,” in answer to his exclamation. “You see, dear, Collins has had three horses to do up—you know you had out two—you extravagant man, and I really couldn’t ask him to leave them all to James, so the boy took the car with the garden pony, and her luggage will come up to-morrow by the market-cart.”
“I say, old girl,” suddenly putting down his cup and going over to her, “it’s not a very warm reception, eh? The child has not been near us this five years—and it’s a long journey from Dresden, eh?” Then, in another and more caressing tone, he added, “You will be good to her, Doodie darling, won’t you? You can make it so awfully nice, if you like to, you know!”
“Am I not always what you call ‘good’ to my guests?” she demanded rather sharply.
“Oh, hang it all, Doodie, but she won’t be a guest! Letty is one of us, eh—isn’t she, old woman? Of course, I know it’s hard on you, and she has only her little bit of a pension; but a girl in the house will be cheery, eh? And you’ll take to her, I know,” and he put his arm round her neck, and gazed into her shrewd, thin face, and repeated, “Eh, darling, won’t you?”
Just at this moment the door opened, and a formal voice announced ‘Mrs. Hesketh.’
Mrs. Hesketh, a middle-aged lady with a stately carriage and the remains of great beauty, entered just in time to witness the caressing attitude of Colonel Fenchurch.