“And you in your old school frock! Oh, it’s simply maddening, and I believe the drawing-room fire is out. Here, get up quickly, and sit at this side with your back to the light, and perhaps your old serge won’t show.”
Blagdon now entered, suave and well groomed, full of apologies and easy talk. To himself he remarked, that Fenchurch was a stiff-necked ceremonious old beggar, but he knew that Mrs. Fen was his friend! He had proposed himself as a visitor, partly to discover what sort of people the Fenchurchs were when at home, and also to see how the land lay, and if the girl was really as pretty as his memory had painted.
The lunch, although shorn of yesterday’s splendour, proved excellent; the wine first-class, the appointments, furniture, and old portraits, intimated that the Fenchurch family had handsome ancestors of taste and fortune. The topics discussed were chiefly hunting, the local pack and followers, other packs, and Mr. Blagdon, a hard rider (who, when he could not get over a country, went through it), gave vivid descriptions of runs with the Pytchley, and the Quorn.
After cigars and coffee the guest was conducted with much pomp and ceremony to inspect the chrysanthemums. Unfortunately the celebrated Holt gardens were now looking their worst; these were lovely in spring and summer, but at present, all the blooms were in the greenhouses, where, although not specially remarkable, the Japanese specimens made a respectable show. Personally Blagdon knew as little of a chrysanthemum as he did of a cauliflower—but he assumed a knowledge he did not possess; in his own bluff fashion he made himself agreeable to his hostess, and she (an able chaperon) arranged that he and Letty should have a few moments in the conservatory alone, whilst she ‘ran’ to give an important message to the head-gardener.
Alas, of these precious moments the great parti failed to avail himself. It was a bitterly cold, raw day, Letty had been all the morning indoors assisting to wash the china (and her aunt had been unusually snappy and unreasonable), the walk across the lawn had given her beautiful nose a tinge of pink, the girl’s gown was a shapeless, ill-made blue serge; her shoes were worn white at the toes, and she hadn’t a word to throw to a dog! The aunt did all the talking. If Hugo Blagdon had cherished any intention of taking the irrevocable step, this intention now died the death. He was sensitive and easily influenced by his environment, and the impression made on him by Miss Glyn at home, was distinctly the reverse of that made by Miss Glyn abroad. There, she was a well-dressed radiant beauty; here, a poor, shabby Cinderella, with timid eyes, and cold, red hands.
After a depressing round of the damp, wintry gardens, and a brief stay in the charming drawing-room, full of old cabinets, pastel portraits, Chippendale furniture, and other treasures, Mr. Blagdon offered a few vague and agreeable remarks, and begged leave to order his carriage.
When the bay steppers came prancing to the hall door, the visitor made a genial and general farewell, and so drove away. As the last rumble of his wheels was heard in the distance Mrs. Fenchurch turned and looked searchingly at Letty, as if she wished to ask her something. She fidgeted about the drawing-room, dusting little things with her handkerchief, taking up and laying down books; but before she could put her questions into words, her terrified niece had effected her escape. Mrs. Fen was well aware, that Letty had her reserves, and for the remainder of the afternoon she sat alone over the fire, with a book in her lap, but instead of reading, her eyes were fixed upon the coals, her active mind was elsewhere; she was lost in speculations. Had he said anything—or not?
If her niece Letty were to marry the great catch—despair of many mothers—how she would score! Already she was anticipating her triumphs. The dining-room would seat seventy with a squeeze; she would get the cake at Buzzards’; cards of invitation at the stores; and borrow a veil from Cecilia.
A few days later, in glancing over The Morning Post, she came upon this paragraph:
“Mr. H. Blagdon and party arrived at the Hôtel de Paris, Monte Carlo, on the 7th inst., for the season.”