Mrs. Wilson passed in and out all day long, to detail little vexations, or ask advice on some—to her—very important point. If she found Florence at work, she stayed, but if she had forgotten herself in the pages of Thierry or Macaulay, Mrs. Wilson smiled, and slipped away again in silence.
The days glided on only too quickly, and one chilly evening, as Florence and her friend sat over the fire in the morning room, the sounds of wheels were heard on the carriage drive.
Mrs. Wilson started up; joy at Mr. Aylwinne’s arrival mingling with her nervous dread that he would not find everything in the perfect order and good taste she had been worrying herself and every one about her to attain.
“It’s he—it’s Mr. Aylwinne!” she panted. “I’m so pleased! But, oh, Miss Heriton, do you think he’ll approve of the way we’ve hung the pictures? And there are those statuettes—I’m terribly afraid they’re not placed in the right niches!”
“Mr. Aylwinne must be of a very exacting disposition if he is not satisfied,” Florence answered, her pulses beating more quickly than usual as she anticipated her own introduction. “But will you not go to meet him?”
“Of course—of course!” And Mrs. Wilson hurried away, forgetting in her haste to close the door after her.
It was rather awkward to be thus made a hearer of their meeting; but it was unavoidable, for Florence did not like to cross the room and shut the door, lest they should approach and detect her in the act.
Thus she heard a manly voice exclaim heartily:
“Well, Mrs. Wilson, here I am at last; but I scarcely know yet whether this is Orwell Court or not. How you have transmogrified the place, to be sure!”
“Not for the worse, I hope. I assure you I have tried to remember your wishes and tastes, and act up to them as far as I could.”