Mr. Stebbing begged Miss Mohun to come in to his wife, who would have tea ready, and this could not be avoided without manifest incivility. Fergus hoped to have been introduced to the haunts of his hero, but Master George was gone off in attendance on his brother, who was fishing, and there was nothing to relieve the polite circle of the drawing-room—a place most aesthetically correct, from cornice to the little rugs on the slippery floor. The little teacups and the low Turkish table were a perfect study to those who did not—like Fergus—think more of the dainty doll’s muffins on the stand, or the long-backed Dachshund who looked for them beseechingly.
Mrs. Stebbing was quite in accordance with the rest, with a little row of curls over her forehead, a terra-cotta dress, and a chain of watch cocks, altogether rather youthful for the mother of a grown-up son, engaged in his father’s business.
She was extremely civil and polite, and everything went well except for a certain stiffness. By and by the subject of the Whites came up, and Mr. Stebbing observed that Miss Merrifield seemed to know Miss White.
‘Oh yes,’ said Gillian eagerly; ‘her father was in my father’s regiment, the Royal Wardours.’
‘A non-commissioned officer, I suppose,’ said Mrs. Stebbing.
‘Not for a good many years,’ said Gillian. ‘He was lieutenant for six years, and retired with the rank of captain.’
‘I know they said he was a captain,’ said Mrs. Stebbing; ‘but it is very easy to be called so.’
‘Captain White was a real one,’ said Gillian, with a tone of offence. ‘Every one in the Royal Wardours thought very highly of him.’
‘I am sure no one would have supposed it from his family,’ said Mrs. Stebbing. ‘You are aware, Miss Mohun, that it was under disgraceful circumstances that he ran away and enlisted.’
‘Many a youth who gets into a scrape becomes an excellent soldier, even an officer,’ said Miss Mohun.