In came a small, quiet-looking lady in mourning, and with her a girl of about Kate’s own age; there was some curtseying and greeting between the two ladies, and her aunt said, “Here is my niece.—Come and speak to Mrs. Wardour, my dear,” and motioned her forwards.
Now to be motioned forwards by Aunt Barbara always made Kate shrink back into herself, and the presence of a little girl before elders likewise rendered her shy and bashful, so she came forth as if intensely disgusted, put out her hand as if she were going to poke, and muttered her favourite “—do” so awkwardly and coldly, that Lady Barbara felt how proud and ungracious it looked, and to make up said, “My niece has been very eager for your coming.” And then the two little girls drew off into the window, and looked at each other under their eyelashes in silence.
Sylvia Joanna Wardour was not like her namesake at home, Sylvia Katharine. She was a thin, slight, quiet-looking child, with so little to note about her face, that Kate was soon wondering at her dress being so much smarter than her own was at present. She herself had on a holland suit with a deep cape, which, except that they were adorned with labyrinths of white braid, were much what she had worn at home, also a round brown hat, shading her face from the sun; whereas Sylvia’s face was exposed by a little turban hat so deeply edged with blue velvet, that the white straw was hardly seen; had a little watered-silk jacket, and a little flounced frock of a dark silk figured with blue, that looked slightly fuzzed out; and perhaps she was not at ease in this fine dress, for she stood with her head down, and one hand on the window-sill, pretending to look out of window, but really looking at Kate.
Meanwhile the two grown-up ladies were almost as stiff and shy, though they could not keep dead silence like the children. Mrs. Wardour had heard before that Lady Barbara Umfraville was a formidable person, and was very much afraid of her; and Lady Barbara was not a person to set anyone at ease.
So there was a little said about taking the liberty of calling, for her brother-in-law was so anxious to hear of Lady Caergwent: and Lady Barbara said her niece was very well and healthy, and had only needed change of air.
And then came something in return about Mrs. Wardour’s other little girl, a sad invalid, she said, on whose account they were come to Bournemouth; and there was a little more said of bathing, and walking, and whether the place was full; and then Mrs. Wardour jumped up and said she was detaining Lady Barbara, and took leave; Kate, though she had not spoken a word to Sylvia Wardour, looking at her wistfully with all her eyes, and feeling more than usually silly.
And when the guests were gone her aunt told her how foolish her want of manner was, and how she had taken the very means to make them think she was not glad to see them. She hung down her head, and pinched the ends of her gloves; she knew it very well, but that did not make it a bit more possible to find a word to say to a stranger before the elders, unless the beginning were made for her as by the De la Poers.
However, she knew it would be very different out of doors, and her heart bounded when her aunt added, “They seem to be quiet, lady-like, inoffensive people, and I have no objection to your associating with the little girl in your walks, as long as I do not see that it makes you thoughtless and ungovernable.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, Aunt Barbara!” cried Kate, with a bouncing bound that did not promise much for her thought or her governableness; but perhaps Lady Barbara recollected what her own childhood would have been without Jane, for she was not much discomposed, only she said,
“It is very odd you should be so uncivil to the child in her presence, and so ecstatic now! However, take care you do not get too familiar. Remember, these Wardours are no relations, and I will not have you letting them call you by your Christian name.”