Mrs. Bazalgette went book in hand to her bedroom, and had not been there long before she found employment. Many of Lucy's things were still in the wardrobes. Mrs. B. rummaged them, inspected them at the window, and ended by ringing for her maid and trying divers of her niece's dresses on. “They make her dresses better than they do mine; they take more pains.” At last she found one that was new to her, though Lucy had worn it several times at Font Abbey.
“Where did she get this, Jane?”
“Present from the old gentleman, mum; he had it down from London for her all at one time with this shawl and twelve puragloves.”
Lucy looked two inches taller than Mrs. B., but somehow, I can't tell how, this dress of hers fitted the latter like a glove. It embraced her; it held her tenderly, but tight, as gowns and lovers should. The poor dear could not get out of it. “I must wear it an hour or two,” said she. “Besides, it will save my own, knocking about in these country lanes.” Thus attired she went into the drawing-room to surprise Lucy. Now Lucy was determined not to move; so, not to be enticed, she did not even look up from her work; on this the other took a mild huff and whisked out.
So keen are the feminine senses, that Lucy, on reflection, recognized something brusk, perhaps angry, in the rustle of that retiring dress, and soon after rang the bell and inquired where Mrs. Bazalgette was. John would make henquiries.
“Your haunt is in the back garden, miss.”
“Walking, or what?”
John would make henquiries.
“She is reading, miss; and she is sitting on the seat master 'ad made for you, miss.
“Very well: thank you.”